
Class f_ 
Book 


7 


Copyright^ - 






Of(U^7 ^"^ 




' THE 

OETRY ***^ rJ 



<*|ANDfr ^O^NCx 



-«* 



IRELAND. 

with 4 

SKETCHES OF HER POETS, 

) AND EDITED . 

BY 

)YLE O'REILLY, 

' Songs from Southern Seas;" "Songs, Legends and Ballads; 
in the Block ;'" " In Bohemia," and "The King's Men : 
a Tale of To-morrow." 

m\\) ^pteel and Wood Qnq.ravina.s. 




NEW YORK: 

GAY BROTHERS & CO. 

14 Barclay Street. 







THE 



37-3 



OETRY 



IRELAND. 

WITH | 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF HER POETS, 
COMPILED AND EDITED . 



" 



BY 



/' 



JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY, 



Kditor of " The Boston Pilot ; " author of " Songs from Southern Seas ; " " Songs, Legends and 
"Moondyne;"' " The Statues in the Block ;'" " In Bohemia,"' and "The King's Men : 
a Tale of To-morrow.'' 



lustrated W1I9 ^pteel and Wood Qnaravlnas. 




NEW YORK: 
GAY BROTHERS & CO., 

14 Barclay Street. 






COPYRIGHTED 1887, 
John Boyle O'Reilly, 






INTRODUCTION 



The many-sided Celtic nature has no more distinct aspect than its poetic 
one. The Celt is a born poet or lover of poetry. His mental method is sym- 
bolic like a Persian rather than picturesque like an Italian or logical like an 
Anglo-Saxon. 

The Poet has been more highly honored by the Irish race than by any other, 
except perhaps, the Jews. But the Jewish poet was removed from the masses, 
a man apart, a monitor, a Prophet. The Irish poet and bard was the very 
voice of the people, high and low, sad and merry — the song-maker, the croon- 
chanter, the story-teller, the preserver of history, the rewarder of heroes. 

In the old days of Celtic freedom, art and learning, the poet was part of the 
retinue or household organization of every Irish prince or chieftain. 

The claim of the poet in Arthur O'Shaughnessy's exquisite ode is nowhere 
more readily allowed than in Ireland: — 

" Wb are the music-makers, 

And we are the dreamers of dreams, 
Wandering by lone sea-breakers, 

And sitting by desolate streams: 
World-losers and world-forsakers, 

On whom the pale moon gleams; 
Yet we are the movers and shakers, 

Of the world forever, it seems. 

" With wonderful deathless ditties, 
We build up the world's great cities, 

And out of a fabulous story 

We fashion an empire's glory; 
One man with a dream, at pleasure, 

Shall go forth and conquer a crown; 
And three with a new song's measure, 

Can trample a kingdom down. 

*' A breath of our inspiration. 
Is the life of each generation; 

A wondrous thing of our dreaming, 

Unearthly, impossible-seeming, 
The soldier, the king and the peasant 

Are working together in one, 
Till our dream shall become their present, 

And their work in the world be done." 



viii INTRODUCTION. 

POST-MORTEM. 

Aug. 27, 1881. 
" Shall mine eyes behold thy glory, O my country? 
Shall mine eyes behold thy glory? 
Or shall the darkness close around them, ere the sun-blaze 
Breaks at last upon thy story? 

" When the nations ope for thee their queenly circle, 
As a sweet, new sister hail thee, 
Shall these lips be sealed in callous death and silence, 
That have known but to bewail thee? 

" Shall the ear be deaf that only loved thy praises, 
When all men their tribute bring thee? 
Shall the mouth be clay, that sang thee in thy squalor, 
When all poets' mouths shall sing thee? 

" Ah! the harpings and the salvos and the shoutings 
Of thy exiled sons returning! 
I should hear, though dead and mouldered, and the grave damps 
Should not chill my bosom's burning. 

" Ah! the tramp of feet victorious! I should hear them 
'Mid thp shamrocks and the mosses, 
And my heart should toss within the shroud and quiver, 
As a captive dreamer tosses. 

" I should turn and rend the cere-clothes round me, 
Giant-sinews I should borrow, 
Crying, ' O my brothers, I have also loved her, 
In her lowliness and sorrow. 

" ' Let me join with you the jubilant procession, 
Let me chant with you her story; 
Then contented I shall go back to the shamrocks, 
Now mine eyes have seen her glory.' " 

No land in human history has evoked deeper or more sacrificial devotion 
than Ireland; and, it is fitting that her poets should he the voice of this pro- 
found feeling. There are joyous notes in their gamut, they sing at times mer- 
rily, boldly, amorously, but the unceasing undertone is there, like a river in a 
forest. How touching is the question of D'Arcy McGee, written in a strange 
country, where he had earned fame and power:— 

" Am I remember'd in Erin — 

I charge you, speak me true — 
Has my name a sound, a meaning 

In the scenes my boyhood knew ? 
Does the heart of the Mother ever 

Recall her exile's name ? 
For to be forgot in Erin, 

And on earth is all the same." 






INTRODUCTION. ix 

But the days of gloom and travail are passing away from Ireland, and her 
scattered children "are like the ocean sand." Generations intensely Irish in 
blood and sympathies have never seen Ireland. They have been born under 
American, Australian and Argentine skies; they wander by Canadian rivers 
and vast American lakes; they tend their flocks on South African and New 
Zealand valleys. And the fancy of the poet must feed on what it sees as well 
as on what it dreams. Arthur O'Shaughnessy's noble poem, " The Song of a 
Fellow Worker," unconsciously brings to mind a street in London— for his life 
was passed in the vast city. In his almost" peerless prefatory ode (to " Music 
and Moonlight,") he is abstract as a Greek of old — one of the singers for man- 
kind, unrelated, unrestrained. There is a rare far-sighted philosophy in this 
dream of a poet, calmly placing his non-productive class highest and apart from 
the industrious, the potential, the ambitious, the utilitarian. 

"Among eminent persons," says Emerson, "those who are most dear to 
men are not of the class which the economist calls producers; they have nothing 
in their hands; they have not cultivated corn nor made bread; they have not 
led out a colony nor invented a loom." So sings Arthur O'Shaughnessy: — 

"But we, with our dreaming and singing, 

Ceaseless and sorrowless we! 
The glory about us clinging 

Of the glorious futures we see, 
Our souls with high music ringing: 

O men! it must ever be 
That we dwell, in our dreaming and singing, 

A little apart from ye. 

" For we are afar with the dawning 

And the suns that are not yet high, 
And out of the infinite morning 

Intrepid you hear us cry — 
How, spite of your human scorning, 

Once more God's future draws nigh, 
And already goes forth the warning 

That ye of the past must die." 

Patriots, too, in other causes than Erin's are "the sea-divided Gael." No 
love for Ireland was ever more passionately laid around her feet than Father 
Abram Eyan's devotion to the South and her " Lost Cause. " There is no deeper 
note of manly dejection, no more poignant word of defeat than his " Con- 
quered Banner." The sweat and smoke-stain of the battle are on his face 
when the waved hand puts aside the beloved flag: — 

"Furl the Banner, for 'tis weary; 
Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary, 

Furl it, fold it — it is best. 
For there's not a man to wave it, 
And there's not a sword to save it, 



x INTRODUCTION. 

And there's not one left to lave it 
In the blood which heroes gave it; 
And its foes now scorn and brave it; 
Furl it, hide it,— let it rest." 

Father Eyan is a fitting voice for a Lost Cause. At his brightest he is sad. 
The shadow of the South 's failure in the field seems hardly ever to lift from his 
spirit. His is the yearning of a soul that cannot compromise — that walks with 
death ' ' down the valley of Silence ' ' sooner than accept new and strange condi- 
tions. But with the indestructible will of the poet and patriot he sends out 
" Sentinel Songs " to keep watch and ward over those who fell in the brave 
fight, that the victor may not trample on their graves and blot out their names 
forever: — 

" Songs, march! he gives command, 
Keep faithful watch and true; 
The living and dead of the conquered land 
Have now no guards save you. 

" List! Songs, your watch is long, 
The soldiers' guard was brief; 
Whilst right is right, and wrong is wrong 
Te may not seek relief." 

Another phase of the Irish poetical nature, and a noble one, is moral, pro- 
phetic, and symbolical. This is well exemplified by William Allingham, a poet 
who touches two strong Irish keys, the peasant's song and the philosopher's 
vision, on consecutive pages — as for instance, his popular " Farewell to Bally- 
shannon and the Winding Banks of Erin," and his wonderful little poem, " The 
Touchstone." Another poem of Allingham's seems to me to be one of the best 
examples of an Irish song, for its melody and spirit — "Among the Heather." 
Observe the flow of these lines: — 



"One evening walking out, I o'ertook a modest < 
"When the wind was blowing cool and the harvest-leaves were falling: 
" Is our road by chance, the same? Might we travel on together? " 
"01 keep the mountain-side," (she replied,) "among the heather." 

But Allingham's "Touchstone" is a poem of another kind altogether. It 
is the utterance of a deep thought in allegory— the only means of expressing it 
whole, or without the cheap setting of mere intellectuality. The very rhythm 
suits the story as if invented for it: — 

"A man there came, whence none can tell, 
Bearing a touchstone in his hand; 
And tested all things in the land 
By its unerring spell." 

The poem will be read many times during a lifetime by him who reads it 
once; and it will never be forgotten. It will feed the mind with rare fancy to 
reflect on the strewn ashes, each grain of which " conveyed the perfect charm." 






INTRODUCTION. xi 

There is one remarkable feature absent from modern Irish poetry, from the 
"work of poets born in Ireland and other countries: the song- maker is rare, and 
becoming rarer. Allingham has written only a few songs; McCarthy not 
many; Alfred Perceval Graves a good many, and very good ones. In America 
the poets of the Irish have had only one eminent song-maker, Dr. Eobert Dwyer 
Joyce. His volume "Songs and Poems," is a most notable book of songs, 
written mainly to old Irish airs, which adds to their value and charm. Joyce 
had in a high degree the melody-sense and the brief one-idead and richly -chased 
song method. His ballads are stirring songs, as anyone knows who has ever 
heard the chorus of " The Iron Cannon " or " The Blacksmith of Limerick." 
In "Deirdre" and "Blanid," both noble epics, the songs interspersed are the 
high- water mark of Joyce's genius. We range the fields of literature to find 
more exquisite songs than " Forget me not," and " 0, Wind of the West that 
Bringest." Not only sweet to the ear but to the soul, the cry of the little blue- 
eyed blossom in the deadly embrace of the " bitter- fanged strong East wind: " — 

" O woods of waving trees! O living streams, 
In all your noontide joys and starry dreams, 

Let me, for love, let me be unforgot! 
O birds that sing your carols while I die, 
list to me! O hear my piteous cry — 

Forget me not! alas! forget me not! " 

Joyce's life was a poem in its unrealities, achievements, agony and gloom. 
He died in the strength of manhood, beloved by the friends whom he had made, 
proudly secretive, but beyond hope, and heart-broken. He was so strong, so 
wise, and so harmless to man or woman, that his life, under fair conditions, 
would have been as fair and natural as the flow of a river. He wrote his songs 
in his happier years. He composed as he walked in the crowded city streets. 
On his daily rounds as an over-burdened physician, the strongly-marked face 
was usually pre-occupied, the sight introverted. He was always ' ' making a 
song," or working some of his characters in or out of difficult positions. A 
friend met him once in Boston and was passed unnoticed. He stopped the 
Doctor by touching his arm, and the spell was broken. " Oh man ! " cried the 
poet, with his rich Limerick utterance, " I was getting Deirdre down from the 
tower ! she's been up there for three months, with the ladder stolen; and I 
could'nt think how I was ever to get her down, without a balloon." 

But in the streets, too, the chill of the secret grief would strike his heart like 
a breath from the grave, and the powerful form would shudder with the spirit's 
suffering. It was then he wrote the woful nameless little song in "Blanid," 
which I have called in this collection " The Cry of the Sufferer." There was no 
■dainty seeking after artificial misery when Joyce wrote these lines: — 

" The measured rounds of dancing feet, 
The songs of wood-birds wild and sweet, 



xii INTRODUCTION. 

The music of the horn and flute, 
Of the gold strings of harp and lute 
Unheeded all shall come and go — 
For I am suffering, and I know! 

No kindly counsel of a friend 

With soothing balm the hurt can mend; 

I walk alone in grief, and make 

My bitter moan for her dear sake, 

For loss of love is man's worst woe, 

And I am suffering, and I know!" 

Dr. Joyce won a distinct and deserved renown in America's literary capital. 
Eespect and affection met him in the street, the garret, and the drawing- 
room. Old Harvard honored him with a degree. The poor, among whom he 
labored unceasingly, and to whom he gave unstintedly of money and gratuitous 
attendance, repaid him with love. A physician, who took his vacant place and 
much of his practice, and who did not know Joyce, has since said: — " He was 
an e>rtraordinary man, and a very good man. His charity was never-ending. 
I find traces of it in every poor street and tenement-house I visit." 

The splendid "Hymnos Paionios," or song of healing, by the Eev. Henry 
Bernard Carpenter, was sent after him to Ireland as a message of love, when 
he went there to die. The poem reached him in time to bring joy to his heart 
with the knowledge that the men whom he loved in America had given love in 
return, and would keep his memory green. Very beautiful are these strong: 
lines: — 

" O saddest of all the sea's daughters, Ierne, sweet mother isle 
Say how canst thou heal at thy waters the son whom we lend thee awhile? 
When the gathering cries implore thee to help and to heal thy kind, 
When thy dying are strewn before thee, thy living ones crouch behind, 
When about thee thy perishing children cling, crying, ' Thou only art fair, 
We have seen through their maze bewildering that the earth-gods never spare: ' 
And the wolves blood-ripe with slaughter gnaw at thee with fangs of steel; 
Thou, Niobe-Land of the water, hast many children to heal. 
Yet heal him, Ierne, dear mother, thy days with his days shall increase, 
At the song of this Delphic brother, nigh half of thy pangs shall cease. 
Nor art thou, sweet friend, in a far land,— all places are near on the globe,— 
Our greeting wear for thy garland, our love for the festival robe. 
While we keep through glory and gloom two altar-candles for thee, 
Thy ' Blanid ' of deathless doom and thy dead but undying ' Deirdre.' " 

In adding to this fine collection of Irish poems, originally compiled some 
years ago by another hand, I am necessarily restricted in space and in the 
number of the later Irish and Irish- American poets represented. But the names 
here are likely to " hold their own " till another generation gleans the literary 
field and throws away the crumbling ears. 

It is remarkable that Boston, the literary centre of the Anglo-American stock,. 



INTRODUCTION. xiiJ 

should also promise a similar harvest for the Irish- American. Here at one and 
the same time were Dr. Joyce, Bev. H. B. Carpenter, Louise Imogen Guiney, 
James Jeffrey Eoche, Mrs. M. E. Blake and Katharine Conway —poets winning- 
garlands outside the limits of their own race. Indeed, no truer New England 
singer than Louise Guiney has come in a generation. Her ' ' Gloucester Harbor ' r 
is a memorable poem. How striking are these stanzas: — 

" North from the beautiful islands, 
North from the headlands and highlands, 

The long sea-wall, 
The white ships flee with the swallow; 
The day-beams follow and follow, 

Glitter and fall. 

" The brown ruddy children that fear not, 
Lean over the quay, and they hear not 

Warnings of lips; 
For their hearts go a-sailing, a-sailing, 
Out from the wharves and the wailing 

After the ships!" 

It may be that the sweetest songs are sung in sorrow. An Irish air 

"is full of farewells for the dying 
And murmurings for the dead." 

It surely is true that "Affliction is a mother whose painful throes yield many 
sons, each fairer than the other." In the past, for nearly 1000 years, the Irish 
heart-song has been shaded by the woe of desolation. Dane and Saxon have 
oppressed and harried the land. There is no sorrow so piteous as the cry of 
weakness in the strangling grasp of Power. This cry is heard in all the songs 
of the Gael — even in the most joyous. 

The future has a hoarded summer time for Ireland — when her ancient glory 
may be revived and surpassed. In the dream of Clarence Mangan he pictures 
the Irish realm of the 13th century: — 

" I walked entranced 

Through a land of morn; 
The sun, with wondrous excess of light, 

Shone down and glanced 

Over seas of corn, 
And lustrous gardens aleft and right. 

Even in the clime 

Of resplendent Spain, 
Beams no such sun upon such a land; 

But it was the time, 

'Twas in the reign, 
Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand." 

The despair of the past is now rarely expressed by an Irish poet — and never 



xiv INTRODUCTION. 

by the poet of the exiled race. Those who have wholly sung for Americans 
have expressed as deep love as those who had to stay and see the mother- 
country in her sufferings. The poems of Daniel Connolly and James J. Roche 
are notable illustrations, as for instance this ftne poem from Mr. Roche:— 

ANDROMEDA. 
THEY chained her fair young body to the cold and cruel stone; 
The beast begot of sea and slime had marked her for his own; 
The callous world beheld the wrong, and left her there alone. 
Base caitiffs who belied her, false kinsmen who denied her, 
Te left her there alone ! 

My Beautiful, they left thee in thy peril and thy pain; 
The night that hath no morrow was brooding on the main; 
But lo ! a light is breaking of hope for thee again. 
'Tis Perseus' sword a-flaming, thy dawn of day proclaiming 

Across the western main. 
O Ireland ! O my country ! he comes to break thy chain ! 

When the foreign blight is removed from Ireland; when the valleys and hills 
and rivers ring with happy Irish voices, the voices of the owners of the land; 
when the long silence is broken by the whirr of busy wheels; when the dark 
treasures are dug from the earth and fashioned into lovely Art; when the nets 
of the fishers in lough and river and ocean are burdened daily with the heaping 
wealth; when the ships sail in and out on every tide from the harbor-serried 
coast; when Irish marbles and porphyries are carved into precious forms of 
beauty, and Irish metals are worked into shapes of loveliness and use; when the 
Irishman stretches out his hand to the world full of his kindred and rejoices in 
other men's joy instead of constantly grieving over his own grief — then there 
shall come poets to Ireland with songs attuned to a new spirit, and the voice of 
the Celt shall be heard through a thousand years of triumph as it has been 
through a thousand years of pain. 

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



THOMAS MOORE. 

PAGE 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 20 

IRISH MELODIES. 

Preface 27 

Go where Glory waits Thee 31 

War Song — Remember the Glories of 

Brien the Brave 31 

Erin ! the Tear and the Smile in thine 



Oh, Breathe not his Name 

When He who adores Thee 

The Harp that once through Tara's Halls 
Oh think not my Spirits are always as 

' light 

Fly not yet 

Though the Last Glimpse of Erin with 

Sorrow I see 

The Meeting of the Waters 

Rich and Rare were the Gems she Wore 
As a Beam o'er the Face of the Waters 

may Glow 

St. Senanus and the Lady 

How Dear to me the Hour.- 

Take Back the Virgin Page, — Written on 

Returning a Blank Book 

The Legacy 

How oft has the Benshee Cried 

We may Roam through this World. . . 

Eveleen's Bower 

The Song of Fionnuala 

Let Erin Remember the Days of Old .... 

Come, Send round the Wine 

Srblime was the Warning 

Believe me, if all those Endearing Young 

Charms 

Erin ! O Erin ! 

Drink to Her 

Oh, Blame not the Bard 

While Gazing on the Moon's Light 

Ill Omens 

Before the Battle 

After the Battle .' 

Oh, 'tis Sweet to Think 

The Irish Peasant to his Mistress 

On Music 

The Origin of the Harp 

It is not the Tear at this Moment Shed . . 

Love's Young Dream 

I saw thy Form in Youthful Prime 



45 | 
xvii 



PAOE- 

The Prince's Day 45 

Lesbia hath a Beaming Eye 46 

Weep on, Weep on 46 

By that Lake whose Gloomy Shore 47 

She is far from the Land 47 

Nay, tell me not 47 

Avenging and Bright 48 

Love and the Novice 48. 

What the Bee is to the Flowret 49 

This Life is all Checkered with Pleasures 

and Woes 49> 

O, the Shamrock 49' 

At the Mid-hour of Night 50' 

One Bumper at parting 50 

'Tis the Last Rose of Summer 51 

The young May Moon 51 

The Minstrel Boy 51 

The Song of O'Ruark, Prince of Breffni. 51 
Oh ! had we some Bright Little Isle of 

our Own 52' 

Farewell ! but Whenever you Welcome 

the Hour 52 

You Remember Ellen 53 

Oh ! Doubt me Not 53 

I'd Mourn the Hopes 53 

Come o'er the Sea 54 

Has Sorrow thy Young Days Shaded ?. . 54 

No, not More Welcome 55- 

When First I Met Thee 55. 

While History's Muse 55- 

The Time I've Lost in Wooing 56> 

Oh ! Where's the Slave so Lowly 56. 

'Tis Gone, and Forever 57 

I Saw from the Beach 57 

Come, Rest in this Bosom 58 

Fill the Bumper Fair ! 58: 

Dear Harp of my Country 58. 

Remember Thee 59 

Oh for the Swords of Former Time !. . . . 59 

Wreath the Bowl 59 

The Parallel 60' 

Oh, YeDead! 60 

O'Donohue's Mistress 61 

Shall the Harp then be Silent 61 

Oh, the Sight Entrancing 6a 

Sweet Innisf alien 63 

'Twas one of those Dreams 63 

Fairest ! put on Awhile 64 

As Vanquish'd Erin 64 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Desmond's Song 65 

I wish I was by that Dim Lake 65 

Song of Innipfail 65 

Oh ! Arranmore, loved Arranmore 66 

Lay his Sword by his Side 66 

The Wine-cup is Circling 67 

Oh ! could we do with this World of Ours 67 

The Dream of those Days 67 

Silence is in our Festal Halls 68 

LALLA ROOKH 69 

The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan 70 

Paradise and the Peri 108 

The Fire-worshippers 118 

The Light of the Harem 146 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

Fragment of College Exercises 160 

The Same 160 

Song—" Mary, I Believe thee True " 160 

To the Large and Beautiful Miss . . . 161 

Inconstancy 161 

I To Julia 161 

To Rosa 161 

Written in the Blank Leaf of a Lady's 

Common-place Book 162 

Anacreontic 162 

Anacreontic 162 

Elegiac Stanzas 162 

Go and Sin No More 162 

To Rosa 162 

The Surprise 163 

A Dream 163 

Written in a Common-place Book called 

" The Book of Follies.'\ 163 

The Ballad .'... 163 

The Tear 164 

Song — "Have you not Seen the Timid 

Tear?" 164 

Elegiac Stanzas 164 

A Night Thought 164 

Song — " Sweetest Love ! I'll not Forget 

Thee" 164 

The Genius of Harmony 165 

Song — "When Time, who Steals our 

years Away " 166 

Peace and Glory 166 

To Cloe 167 

Lying 167 

Woman 167 

A Vision of Philosophy 167 

A Ballad— "The Lake of the Dismal 

Swamp " 168 

At Night 169 

Odes to Nea (1) 169 

" (2) 170 

Lines — Written in a Storm at Sea 170 

The Steersman's Song — Written aboard 

the Boston Frigate, 28th April 170 

Lines — Written on Leaving Philadelphia 171 



PAGE 

Lines— Written at the Cohoes, or Fall of 

the Mohawk River 171 

Ballad Stanzas 172 

A Canadian Boat Song — Written on the 

River St. Lawrence 172 

Black and Blue Eyes 172 

Love and Time 173 

Dear Fanny 173 

From Life, without Freedom 173 

Merrily every Bosom Boundeth — The 

Tyrolese Song of Liberty 174 

Sigh not thus , 174 

SACRED SONGS. 

Thou art, O God 175 

The Bird let Loose 175 

Fallen is thy Throne 175 

O, Thou who dry'st the Mourner's Tear. 176 

But Who shall See 176 

This World is all a Fleeting Show 176 

Almighty God ! Chorus of Priests 177 

Sound the Loud Timbrel — Miriam's Song 177 
O, Fair ! O, Purest ! — Saint Augustine 

to his sister 177 

SAMUEL LOVER. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 17 

The Angel's Whisper 179 

The Fairy Boy 179 

True Love can ne'er Forget 180 

Nymph of Niagara 180 

How to Ask and Have 181 

The Land of the West 181 

Sweet Harp of the Days that are Gone. . 182 
Oh yield not, thou Sad One, to Sighs. . . 182 

Widow Machree 182 

Molly Bawn 183 

Mother, He's Going Away 183 

The Quaker's Meeting 184 

Native Music 185 

The Charm 185 

The Four-leaved Shamrock 186 

Oh, Watch you Well by Daylight 186 

Rory O'More ; or, Good Omens 186 

The Blarney 187 

The Chain of Gold 187 

Give me my Arrows and give me my 

Bow 188 

The Horn- Before Day 188 

Macarthy's Grave (A Legend of Killar- 

ney) 189 

St. Kevin (A Legend of Glendalough). . . 189 

The Indian Summer 190 

The War-Ship of Peace 190 

An Honest Heart to Guide Us 190 

The Birth of Saint Patrick 191 

The Arab 191 

Fag-an-bealach 192 

The Bridge of Sighs 192 






TABLE OF CONTENTS. 





193 
193 
193 

194 
195 
195 
195 
195 
196 
197 
197 
197 
198 
198 

15 
199 

201 

201 
201 
202 
202 
203 
203 
205 
205 
206 
206 
207 
207 

208 
209 
209 
210 
210 
210 
210 
211 

211 
211 
212 

212 
212 
213 
213 

213 

214 

214 


O, Brazil, the Isle of the Blest— A Spectre 
Island, said to be sometimes visible on 
the Verge of the Western Horizon, in 
Atlantic, from the Isles on Arran 

Lines addressed to a Sea-gull, seen off 
the Cliffs of Moher, in the County of 


PAGE 


Forgive, but Don't Forget 




The Flag is Half-mast High (A ballad of 

the Walmer Watch) 

I Can Ne'er Forget Thee 


214 


Memory and Hope 

Molly Carew 

My Dark-Haired Girl 

Nora's Lament 

The Silent Farewell 

'Twas the Day of the Feast 

What will You do, Love ? 


The Sister of Charity 

To Memory 

The Song of the old Mendicant 

Would you choose a Friend ? 

JONATHAN SWIFT. 


216 
217 
217 
318 


Who are You? 

GERALD GRIFFIN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 


Corinna 

Epigram 

Lines written on a Window Pane at 

Chester 

On Mrs. Biddy Floyd ; or the Receipt to 

Form a Beauty 

Epigram — On the Busts in Richmond 

Hermitage, 1732 

Lesbia 


219 
219 

219 


The Bridal of Malabide (An Irish Legend 

Hark ! Hark 1 the Soft Bugle 

A Soldier — a Soldier To-night is out 
Guest 


219 

220 


Know ye not that Lovely River ? 

'Tis, it is the Shannon's Stream 

I love my Love in the Morning 




REV. FRANCIS MAHONY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

Vert- Vert, the Parrot— From the French 

of the Jesuit Gresset 

Hys original Innocence 


18 


Sleep that like the Couched Dove 


!W| 


Old Times 1 Old Times ! 

A place in thy Memory, Dearest 

For I am Desolate 

The Bridal Wake 

Adare 

The Poet's Prophecy 

Twilight Song 

The Mother's Lament 

You never Bade me Hope, 'tis True 

Like the Oak by the Fountain 

The Phantom City 

War I War ! horrid War 

Gone ! Gone ! forever Gone 

Sonnets — Addressed to Friends in Amer 
ica, and prefixed to " Card Drawing,' 


221 


Hys evil Voyage 

The awfull Discoverie 

The Silk-worm. (A Poem from the Latin 
of Jerome Vida) 


223 

227 
RR3 


The Red-breast of Aquitania 

L'Envoy to W. H. Ainsworth, Esq 


234 
235 
33fi 




flBfi 


Life, a Bubble. A Bird's-eye View there- 
of 

BLARNEY SONGS. 


237 




o,ffi 


War Song of O'Driscol 

My Spirit is of pensive Mould 

Impromptu— On seeing an Iris formed bj 
the Spray of the Ocean, at Miltown 
Malbay 


HI. Terry Callaghan's Song 

The Lament of Stella 

Epitaph on Father Prout 

The Attractions of a fashionable Irish 

Watering Place 

From Cresset's Farewell to the Jesuits. . 
Don Ignacio Loyola's Vigil in the Chapel 

of our Lady of Montserrat 

The Song of the Cossack 

Popular Recollections of Bonaparte. . . . 
Address to the Vanguard of the French 

under the Duke D'Alencon, 1521 


238 
239 
239 

239 

240 


Written in Adare in 1820 

The Wake of the Absent 

On pulling some Campanulas in a Lady' 

Garden 

They speak of Scotland's Heroes bold. . 


240 
241 
242 

243 






X 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



Ode on the Signal Defeat of the Suitan 
Osman, by the Army of Poland and her 

Allies, September, 1621 243 

Ode on the taking <>f ( !alais, addn 

Henry II., King- of France, by George 

Buchanan 244 

Michael Angelo's Farewell to Sculpture 240 
The Song of Brennus, or the Introduc- 
tion. of the Grape into France 847 

Wine Debtor to Water 247 

Popular Ballad on the Battle of Lepanto, 248 
The three-colored Flag. (A prosecuted 

sun-) 248 

Malbrouck 249 

The Obsequies of David the Painter. 

From the French of Beranger 250 

To Prostrate Italy 251 

Ode to the Statue of Moses, at the Foot 
of the Mausoleum of Pope Julius II., 
in the Church of Saint Peter ad Vin- 
cula, Rome. The Masterpiece of 

Michael ingelo 2/51 

Lines addressed to the Tiber, by Ales- 

sandro Ouildi 251 

The Lngel of Poetry. To L. E. L 252 

" Good Dry Lodgings," according to Be- 
ranger, Songster 253 

The Carrier-dove of Athens — A Dream, 

1822 254 

The Fall of the Leaves. From the French 

of Millevoye 254 

Lines on the Burial of a Friend's Daugh- 
ter, at Passy, July 16, 1832. From the 

French of Chateaubriand 255 

Pray for Me. A Ballad from the French 
of Millevoye, on his Death-bed at the 

Village of Neuilly 255 

The French Fiddler's Lamentation 256 

Consolation, addressed by Lamartine to 
his Friend and Brother Poet, Manoel, 

banished from Portugal 256 

The Dog of the three Days. A Ballad, 

September, 1881 257 

The Mistletoe. A Type of the Heaven- 

born 258 

Shooting Stars 259 

A Panegyric on Geese, (1810) 259 

Ode to Time 260 

The Garret of Beranger 260 

Political Economy of the Gypsies 261 

The Cod of Beranger 261 

The Autobiography of P J. De Beranger 262 
Meditations in a Wine Cellar. By the 

Jesuit Vaniere 263 

Lines on a Moth-eaten Book. From the 

Latin of Beza 265 

The Fountain of Saint Nazaro. From the 
Latin of Sannazar 266 



Petrarca's Dream. (After the Death of 

Laura) 206 

On Solar Eclipses. (A new Theory). For 

the use of the London University 266 

The Flight into Egypt. A Ballad 267 

The Veil. An Oriental Dialogue. From 

the French of Victor Hugo 268 

The Bride of the Cymbaleer. A Ballad 

from Victor Hugo ' 268 

The Military Profession in France 270 

Time and Love 270 

Petrarca's Address to the Summer Haunt 

of Laura 271 

The Porch of Hell. (Dante) 272 

A True Ballad. Containing the Flight of 
Napoleon Bonaparte, with the Loss of 
his Sword, his Hat, and imperial Baton, 
besidesaWound inthe Head ; the good 
Luck of the Prussians in get! ing hold of 
his Valuables, in Diamonds and other 
Properties ; and lastly, the happy 
Entry of his Majesty, Louis Dix-huit, 
into Paris. From the Italian of Nicode- 

mus Lermil 273 

The Wine-cup bespoken. From the Ital- 
ian of Claudio Tolomei 273 

Village Song 274 

The Vision of Petrarca 274 

A Venetian Barcarolle 274 

Ode to the Wig of Father Boscovich, the 
celebrated Astronomer. From the Ital- 
ian of Julius Ccesar Cordara 275 

The Intruder. From the Italian of Men- 

zini 275 

A Serenade. By Vittorelli 276 

The Repentance of Petrarca 276 

ODES OF HORACE. 

Ode I. — To Meeienas 276 

Ode II 277 

Ode III. — To the ship bearing Virgil to 

Greece 278 

Ode IV 279 

Ode V.— Pyrrha's Inconstancy 279 

Ode VI...' ' 280 

Ode VH.— To Munatius Plancus 280 

OdeVIH 881 

Ode IX 281 

Ode X.— Hymn to Mercury 281 

Ode XI.— Ad Leuconoen 282 

Ode Xn. — A Prayer for Augustus 282 

Ode XIII.— The Poet's Jealousy 283 

Ode XIV.— To the Vessel of the State. 

—An Allegory 283 

Ode XV.— The Sea-God's Warning to 

Paris 283 

Ode XVI.— The Satirist's Recantation ... 284 
Ode XVH— An Invitation to Horace's 
Villa 385 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



Ode XVIII 285 

Ode XIX.— De Glycera 285 

Ode XX.—" Pot Luck " with Horace. . . 286 
Ode XXI.— To the Rising Generation of 

Rome 286 

OdeXXn 286 

Ode XXIII.— A Remonstrance to Chole, 

the Bashful 287 

Ode XXIV.— To Virgil. A consolatory 

Address 287 

Ode XXVI.— Friendship and Poetry— 

the best Antidote to Sorrow 287 

Ode XXVH.— A Banquet Scene— Toast 

and Sentiment 288 

Ode XXIX.— The Sage Turned Soldier.. 288 
Ode XXX.— The Dedication of Glyceras 

Chapel 289 

Ode XXXI.— The Dedication of Apollo's 

Temple 289 

Ode XXXH.— An occasional Prelude of 

the Poet to his Songs 289 

Ode XXXIV— The Poet's Conversion.. 290 
Ode XXXV.— An Address to Fortune. . . 290 
Ode XXXVI.— A Welcome to Numida. . 291 
Ode XXXVIL— The Defeat of Cleopatra. 

A joyful Ballad 291 

Ode XXXVm.— Last Ode of Book the 

First 292 

Lib. H.— Ode I.— To Pollio on his Med- 
itated History . . 292 

Ode H. — Thoughts on Bullion and the 

Currency 293 

Ode III.— A Homily on Death 293 

Ode IV.— Classical Love Matches 294 

Ode VI.— The Attractions of Tibur and 

Tarentum 294 

Ode VH.— A Fellow Soldier Welcome 

from Exile 295 

Ode VOL— The Rogueries of Barine 295 

denis p. McCarthy. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 19 

The Voyage of St. Brendan 297 

Parti.— The Vocation 298 

Part II.— Ara of the Saints 300 

Part ni.— The Voyage 303 

Part rv— The Buried City 305 

Part V.— The Paradise of Birds 309 

Part VI.— The Promised Land 312 

LEGENDS AND LYRICS 

The Pillar Towers of Ireland 314 

The Lay Missioner 315 

Summer Longings 317 

A Lament 317 

The Clan of MacCaura 319 

Devotion 321 






Over the Sea. 



Home Preference 

The Fireside 

The Vale of Shanganah. 

The Window 

Advance 

The Emigrants, Part I. . 
" II. 

To Ethna 

Wings for Home 

To an Infant 

Home Sickness 

Youth and Ag - e 

Sunny Days in Winter. . 

Duty 

Order 

The First of the Angels. 

Spirit Voices 

Truth in Song 

All Fools' Day 

The Birth of the Spring. 



1 

523 



324 
325 
335 
327 

327 



JAMES C. MANGAN. 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 
The Lay of the Bell. 

Preparations for Founding the Bell . 

Offices of the Bell 

The Birth-day Bell 

The Wedding Bell 

The Fire Bell 

The Passing Bell 

The Tocsin, or Alarm Bell 

The Destination of the Bell 

The Diver. A Ballad 

The Maiden's Plaint 

The Unrealities 

The Words of Reality 

The Words of Delusion 

The Course of Time 

Hope 

Spirits Everywhere 

Spring Roses 

The Castle Over the Sea 

Durand of Blondeu 

Life is the Desert and the Solitude 

Light and Shade 

The Midnight Bell 

The Wanderer's Chant 

Not at Home 

Hope 

O Maria, Regina Misericordiaa ! 

Love Ditty 

Charlemagne and the Bridge of Moon- 
beams 

The Minstrel's Motherland 

Holiness to the Lord 

The Grave, the Grave 



349 
349 
350 
351 
351! 
351 
352 
352 
353. 
354 

354- 
355. 
356 
356 



r 

^^ Tl 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



The Minstrel 

The Rose 

A Voice from the invisible World 

A Song from the Coptic 

Another Coptic Song 

ToEbert 

The Brother and the Sister 

The Field of Kunnersdorf 

The aged Landman's Advice to his Son 

And then no more 

The Cathedral of Cologne . 

Dale and Highway 

A Sigh 

The Sheik of Mount Sinai 

Grabbe 

Freedom and Right 

To the Beloved One 

Cheerfulness 

Freedom 

The Grave 

The German's Fatherland 

Be Merry and Wise 

The Revenge of Duke Swerting 

The Student of Prague 

Andreas Hofer 

The Death of Hofer 

The Bereaved One 

Song. When the Roses blow 

Good Night 

The Midnight Review 



IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 

Dark Rosaleen 

Shane Bwee ; or, the Captivity of the 
Gaels 

A Lamentation for the Death of Sir Mau- 
rice Fitzgerald, Knight of Kerry Sars- 

field 

Part I 

Part II 

Lament over the Ruins of the Abbey of 
Teach Molaga 

The Dawning of the Day 

The Dream of John MacDonnell 

The Sorrows of Innisfail 

The Testament of Cathaeir Mor 

Rury and Darvorgilla 

The Expedition and Death of King 
Dathy 

Prince Aldfrid's Itinerary through Ire- 
laud 

Kinkora 

Lament for the Princes of Tyrone and 
Tyrconnell 

Q'Hussey's Ode to the Maguire 

Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan 

Welcome to the Prince 

Lament for Banba 



PAGE 

Ellen Bawn 401 

Love Ballad 402 

The Vision of Conor O'Sullivan 403 

Patrick Condon's Vision 403 

Sighile Ni Gara 404 

St. Patrick's Hymn before Tara 406 

APOCRYPHA. 

The Karamanian Exile 407 

The Wail and Warning of the Three 

Khalendeers 408 

The Time of the Barmecides 409 

The Mariner's Bride 410 

To the Ingleezee Khafir, calling himself 
Djaun Bool Djenkinzun 410 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

Soul and Country 411 

Siberia 412 

A Vision of Connaught in the Thirteenth 

Century 412 

An Invitation 413 

The Warning Voice 413 

The Lovely Land 415 

The Saw-Mill 415 

Cean-Salla 416 

Irish National Hymn 416 

Broken-Hearted Lays 417 

The One Mystery 418 

The Nameless One 418 

The Dying Enthusiast 419 

To Joseph Brenan 420 

Twenty Golden Years Ago 420 

BICHABD B. SHEBIDAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 24 

Ah ! Cruel Maid 422 

How oft, Louisa 422 

Had I a Heart for Falsehood Framed. ... 422 

Oh Yield, Fair Lids 423 

A Bumper of Good Liquor 423 

We Two 423 

Could I her Faults Remember 423 

By Coelia's Arbor 423 

Let the Toast Pass 424 

O, the Days when I was Young 424 

Dry be that Tear 424 

What Bard, O Time, Discover 425 

Alas ! Thou hast no Wings, oh ! Time. . 425 

I ne'er could any Lustre see 425 

When Sable Night 425 

The Mid-watch 423 

Marked You her Cheek ? 426 

OLIVEB GOLDSMITH. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 14 

The Deserted Village 427 

The Traveller 433 

The Hermit 439 

| 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



The Double Transformation 441 

Stanzas on the taking of Quebec 442 

Epitaph on Edward Purdon 443 

Stanzas on Woman 443 

An Elegy on the Glory of her Sex, Mrs. 

Mary Blaize 443 

Epitaph on Dr. Parnell 443 

A Prologue, written and spoken by the 

Poet Laberius, a Roman Knight, whom 

Ctesar forced upon the Stage 444 

Epilogue to the Comedy of " She Stoops 

to Conquer " 444 

Emma 444 

AUBREY DeVERE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 13 

Song. Love laid down his golden Head. 445 

Creep slowly up the Willow Wand 445 

Spenser 445 

Holy Cross Abbey 446 

Sel f-Deception 446 

Our King sat of old in Emania and Tara. 446 

The Malison 448 

Hymn, on the founding of the Abbey of 

St. Thomas the Martyr, ('A Becket) in 

Dublin, A. D., 1177 448 

Dead is the Prince of the Silver Hand. . . 449 

The Faithful Norman 450 

St. Patrick and the Bard 450 

'T was a Holy Time when the King's long 

Foemen 452 

King Laeghaire and St. Patrick 452 

The Bier that Conquered ; or, O'Donnell's 

Answer. A.D., 1257 454 

Peccatum Peccavit 455 

The Dirge of Athunree. A. D., 1316. . . . 455 

Between Two Mountains 450 

Ode. The un vanquished Land 456 

The Statue of Kilkenny. A. D. 1367 457 

The True King. A. D., 1399 457 

Queen Margaret's Feasting. A. D., 1451. 458 

Plorans Ploravit. A. D., 1583 459 

War Song of MacCarthy 459 

Florence MacCarthy's Farewell to his 

English Love 459 

War Song of Tirconnell's Bard at the Bat- 
tle of Blackwater. A. D., 1597 460 

The March to Kinsale. December, A. D., 

1601 463 

A. D., 1602 464 

Dirge of Rory O'More. A. D., 1642 464 

The Bishop of Ross. A. D., 1650 465 

Archbishop Plunket. A. D., 1681 465 

A Song of the Brigade 466 

A Ballad of Sarsfield ; or, the Bursting of 

tlieGuns. A.D,,1690 466 

Oh that the Pines which Crown Yon 

Steep 466 



The Last MacCarthymore 407 

Hymn for the Feast of St. Stephen 468 

Grattan 468 

Adduxit in Tenebris 468 

The Cause 469 

Gray Harper, Rest ! 469 

Sonnet. Sarsfield and Clare 469 

Song. A brighten'd Sorrow veils her 

Face 469 

St. Columkill's Farewell to the Isle of 

Arran, on setting sail for Iona 470 

Sonnet. Christian Education 470 

Death 470 

The Graves of Tyrconnel and Tyrone on 

San Pietro, in Montorio 471 

Wayside Fountains 471 

THOMAS PARNELL. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 21 

The Hermit 472 

A Night-Piece on Death 475 

An Allegory on Man 476 

Hymn to Contentment 477 

THOMAS DAVIS. 

INTRODUCTION AND BIOGRAPHICAL 

SKETCH.— By John Mitchel 479 

PART I.— NATIONAL BALLADS AND 
SONGS. 

The Men of Tipperary 483 

The Rivers 484 

Glengariff 484 

The West's Asleep 485 

Oh ! For a Steed 485 

Cymric Rule and Cymric Rulers 486 

A Ballad of Freedom 486 

The Irish Hurrah 488 

A Song for the Irish Militia 488 

Our Own Again 489 

Celts and Saxons 489 

Orange and Green will Carry the Day. . . 490 

PART II.— NATIONAL SONGS AND BAL- 
LADS. 

TheLostPath 491 

Love's Longings 492 

Hope Deferred 492 

Eibhlin, a Ruin 492 

Tbe Banks of the Lee 493 

The Girl of Dunbwy 493 

Duty and Love 494 

Annie, Dear 494 

Blind Mary 494 

The Bride of Mallow 495 

The Welcome 495 

The Mi-Na-Meala .* 496 

Maire Bhan a Stoir 497 

Oh ! The Marriage 497 

A Plea for Love 498 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



PAOE 

The Bishops Daughter 498 

The Boatman of Kinsale 498 

Darling Nell 499 

Love Chant 499 

A Christmas Scene 499 

The Invocation 500 

Love and War 500 

My Land 500 

The Right Road 501 

PART DX— BALLADS AND SONGS IL- 
LUSTRATIVE OF IRISH HISTORY. 

A Nation Once Again 501 

Lament for the Milesians 502 

The Fate of King Dathi 503 

Argan Mor 504 

The Victor's Burial 504 

The True Irish King 505 

The Geraldines 506 

O'Brien of Ara 507 

Emmeline Talbot 508 

O'Sullivan's Return 510 

The Fate of the O'Sullivans 511 

The Sack of Baltimore 513 

Lament for the Death of Eoghan Ruadh 

O'Neill 514 

A Rally for Ireland 515 

The Battle of limerick, August 27, 1690. 516 

PART TV— BALLADS AND SONGS IL- 
LUSTRATIVE OF IRISH HISTORY. 

The Penal Days 

The Death of Sarsfield 

The Surprise of Cremona (1702) 

The Flower of Finae 

The Girl I Left Behind Me 

Clare's Dragoons 

When South Winds Blow 

The Battle Eve of the Brigade 

Fontenoy (1745) 

The Dungannon Convention (1782) 

Song of the Volunteers of 1782 

The Men of 'Eighty-Two 

Native Swords 

Tone's Grave 

PART V.— MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Nationality 

Self Reliance 

Sweet and Sad 

The Burial 

We Must Not Fail 

O'Connell's Statue 

The Green Above the Red 

The Vow of Tipperary 

A Plea for the Bog-Trotters 

A Second Plea for the Bog-Trotters .... 

A Scene in the South 

William Tell and the Genius of Switzei 
land 



The Exile 

My Home 

Fanny Power 

Marie Nangle ; or, 11 

Navan 

My Grave 

Appendix 



Seven Sisters of 



564 



J. J. CALLANAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 

The Recluse of Inchidony 

Accession of George the Fourth 

Restoration of the Spoils of Athens. 
The Revenge of Donal Comm 

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Gougane Barra 575 

To a Sprig of Mountain Heath 576 

Spanish War Song 576 

SONGS, LYRICAL PIECES, &c. 

"Si Je Te Perds, Je Suis Perdu " 577 

How Keen the Pang 577 

Written to a Young Lady on entering a 

Convent 578 

Lines on a Deceased Clergyman 578 

Lines on the Death of an Amiable and 

Highly Talented Young Man, who fell 

a Victim to Fever in the West Indies. 578 

And must we Part 579 

Pure to the Dewy Gem 579 

To * * * * *— Lady, the Lyre thou 

bid'st me take 579 

Stanzas. Hours like those I Spent with 

You 580 

The Night was Still 580 

Serenade. The Blue Waves are Sleeping 580 

Rousseau's Dream 581 

When each Bright Star is Clouded 581 

Hussa Tha Measg Na Real tan More 581 



SACRED SUBJECTS. 

The Virgin Mary's Bank 

Mary Magdalen 

Saul 

The Mother of The Machabees. 
Moonlight 



584 



TRANSLATIONS FROM THE IRISH. 

Dirge of O'Sullivan Bear 535 

The Girl I Love 596 

The Convict of Clonmel 587 

The Outlaw of Loch Lene 587 

JACOBITE SONGS. 

O Say, My Brown Drimin 588 



The White Cockade. 
The Avenger 






TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

The Lament of O'Gnive 590 

On the Last Day 590 

A Lay of Mizen Head 591 

The Lament of Kirke White 592 

Lines, written to a Young- Lady, who, in 
the author's presence, had taxed the 
Irish with want of gallantry, proving 
her position by the fact of their not 
serenading, as the Italians, etc., do. . . 593 

Stanzas to Erin 593 

Lines to Miss O. D , 594 

Lines to Erin 594 

Wellington's Name 595 

The Exile's Farewell 595 

Song. Awake thee, my Bessy, the Morn- 
ing is Fair 595 

De la Vida del Cielo 596 

The Star of Bethlehem 596 

Lines to the Blessed Sacrament 596 

Though Dark Fate hath reft me 597 

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 9 

The Winding Banks of Erne 598 

The Abbot of Innisfallen 599 

Abbey Asaroe 601 

The Wondrous Well 602 

The Touchstone 602 

Among the Heather 602 

The Statuette 603 

The Ballad of Squire Curtis 603 

SAMUEL FERGUSON. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 14 

LAYS OF THE WESTERN GAEL. 

The Tain-Quest '. 604 

The Abdication of Fergus MacRoy 612 

The Healing of Conall Carnach 614 

The Burial of King Cormac 618 

Aideen's Grave 620 

The Welshmen of Tirawley 623 

Owen Bawn 628 

Grace O'Maly 629 

BALLADS AND POEMS. 

The Fairy Thorn 631 

Willy Gihiland 633 

The Forging of the Anchor 634 

The Forester's Complaint 636 

The Pretty Girl of Loch Dan 637 

Hungary 637 

Adieu to Brittany 638 

Westminster Abbey 639 

VERSIONS AND ADAPTATIONS. 

The Origin of the Scythians 640 

The Death of Dermic! 641 

The Invocation 643 

Archytas and the Mariner 643 



VERSIONS FROM THE TRISH. 

Deirdra's Farewell to Alba 645 

Deirdra's Lament for the Sons of Usnach 645 

The Downfall of the Gael 646 

O'Byrne's Bard to the Clans of Wicklovv. 647 
Lament over the Ruins of the Abbey of 

Timoleague 648 

To the Harper O'Connellan 649 

Grace Nugent 649 

Mild Mabel Kelly 649 

The Cup of O'Hara 650 

The Fair Hair'd Girl 650 

Pastheen Fin 650 

Molly Astore 651 

Cashel of Munster 651 

The Coolun 652 

Youghall Harbor 652 

Cean Dubh Deelish 653 

Boatman's Hymn 653 

The Dear Old Air 653 

The Lapful of Nuts 653 

Mary's Waking 654 

Hopeless Love 654 

The Fair Hills of Ireland 654 

Torna's Lament for Core and Niall 655 

Una Phelimy 656 

JOHN BANIM. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 10 

Ailleen 658 

Soggarth Aroon 658 

The Fetch 659 

The Irish Maiden's Song 659 

The Reconciliation 660 

CHARLES JAMES LEVER. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 16 

Bad Luck to this Marching 661 

It's Little for Glory I Care 661 

Larry M'Hale 662 

Mary Draper 662 

Now Can't You be. Aisy ? 663 

Oh ! Once we were Wig-ant People 663 

Potteen, Good Luck to Ye, Dear 664 

The Bivouac 664 

The Girls of the West 665 

The Irish Dragoon 665 

The Man for Galway 665 

The Pope he Leads a Happy Life 666 

The Pickets are Fast Retreating, Boys. . 666 
Widow Malone 667 

JOHN STERLING. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 24' 

The Mariners 668 

The Dreamer on the Cliff 668 

The Dearest 669 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Lament for Daedalus 669 

The Husbandman 670 

Louis XV 670 

REV. CHARLES WOLFE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 26 

Go ! Forget Me 672 

The Burial of Sir John Moore 672 

The Chains of Spain are Breaking 673 

Oh ! Say not that my Heart is cold. . . . 673 

Gone from her Cheek 673 

Oh, My Love has an Eye of the Softest 

Blue 673 

If I had thought Thou Could'st Have 

Died 674 

JOHN ANSTER. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 9 

Dirge Song. Like the Oak of the Vale. 675 

The Harp 675 

The Everlasting Rose 676 

If I Might Choose 676 

Oh 1 If, as Arabs Fancy 676 

WILLIAM CONGREVE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 12 

A Cathedral 677 

JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 13 

Oh! Sleep 678 

The Deserter's Lamentation 678 

The Monks of the Order of St. Patrick, 
commonly called the Monks of the 

Screw 678 

The Green Spot that Blooms o'er the 

Desert of Life 680 

DR. WILLIAM MAGINN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 17 

The Sack of Magdeburgh: 6S1 

The Soldier-Boy 682 

The Beaten Beggarman 682 

CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 13 

The Irish Rapparees 685 

The Irish Chiefs 685 

Innishowen 686 

The Muster of f lie North. (1641) 687 

The Voice of Labor 689 

The Patriot's Bride 690 

Sweet Sibyl 692 

A Lay Sermon 692 

0"Donnell and the Fair Fitzgerald 693 

WILLIAM CARLETON. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 11 

Sir Turlough, or the Church Yard Bride. 695 
A Sigh for Knockmany 698 



EDWARD WALSH. 

PAGE 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 25 

A Munster Keen 699 

Battle of Credran. (1257) 700 

Margread Ni Chealleadh 701 

O'Donovan's Daughter 702 

Brighidin Ban Mo Store 703 

Mo Craoibhin Cno 703 

Aileen the Huntress 704 

ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 16 

Forget me not 707 

The Doves 707 

What is this Love ? 707 

The Blacksmith of Limerick 708 

In Life's young Morning 709 

The Cannon 710 

The Mountain Ash 711 

Song. (From "Blanid") 711 

Song of the Sufferer 711 

JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 22 

The V— a— s— e 712 

Andromeda 712 

Netchaieff 713 

A Sailor's Yarn 713 

The Corporal's Letter 714 

The Way of the World 715 

For the People 716 

LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 16 

Gloucester Harbor 717 

Private Theatricals 717 

Brother Bartholomew 718 

A Ballad of Metz 718 

The Rival Singers 719 

An Epitaph for Wendell Phillips 720 

The Caliph and the Beggar 720 

EIATHARINE TYNAN. 

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 25 

Waiting 721 

Two Wayfarers 724 

An Answer 724 

Fra Ang'elieo at Fiesole 725 

Eastertide 725 

Olivia and Dick Primrose 7213 

The Lark's Waking 726 

Charles Lamb 727 

August or June 727 

Faint-hearted 727 

Thoreau at Walden 728 

A Sad Year. (18t<2) 70S 

A Song' of Summer 729 

A Bird's Song 729 



TABLE OF CONTENTS. 



ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY 






PAGE 




PAGE 


The first Red Leaf 










BIOGRAPHICAL, SKETCH 


. 21 

. 730 










Ode 


The Heaviest Cross of all 


768 


Song of a Fellow-worker 


. 731 






A Parable of good Deeds 


. 732 


MARY E. BLAKK, 




A Fallen Hero 


. 734 
. 735 
. 736 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 




Black Marble 




769 


In the Old House 


How Ireland answered 


771 








772 










. 23 
. 736 






BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 










The Conquered Banner 


Our Record 


773 




. 737 
. 738 




774 


March of the Deathless Dead 


Sonnet " 


774 


Song of the Mystic 


. 738 


Lines. (1875) 






The Song of the Deathless Voice 


. 740 


O'DONOVAN ROSSA. 








BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 


22 


FANNY PARNELL. 










Jillen Andy 

My Prison Chamber is Iron lined 


776 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 


. 21 




Ireland, Mother ! 


. 742 


A Visit from my Wife 


779 




. 742 


A Visit to my Husband in Prison. (Maj 








Ireland 


. 743 

. 744 


1866) 


780 


What shall we weep for? 


Edward Duffy 


781 


Michael Davitt 


. 745 


In Millbank Prison, London. (18o6). . . 


782 


To my Fellow-women 


. 745 


Smuainte Broin — Thoughts of Sorrow. . 


783 


John Dillon 


. 747 






Buckshot Forster 


. 749 


HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. 




. 20 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 


1". 








BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 


Fryeburg 


. 787 


- The Fame of the City 


. 751 
. 751 
. 752 


" Heart-hunger 




791 


- Jacqueminots 




792 


- My Native Land 


. 752 


Beyond the Snow 


796 


- Western Australia 


. 753 




796 


" Waiting 


. 753 


Sonnet 


. 797 


- Living 


. 754 


A New England Winter Son^- 


797 


Her Refrain 


. 754 


Ode to General Porfirio Diaz 


79S 




A Savage 


. 755 






- Love's Secret 


. 755 


PRANCES BROWNE. 






. 756 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 


10 


- At Fredericksburg. (Dec. 13, 1862).. . . 

- Released, Jan. 1878 


. 756 
. 758 




. 800 


Songs of Our Land 


. 800 


"A Nation's Test 


. 759 


JOHN SAVAGE, LL.D. 




LADY WILDE. 




BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 


. 23 


PJOftRAPHTCAT, SKETCH 


. 25 


The Muster of the North 


802 




805 


The Voice of the Poor 


. 763 


Washington 


. 806 


Buch'is and his Sons 


. 764 


THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. 






. 765 










BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 


19 




. 766 






The Itinerant Singing Girl 








■ 766 








The Exile's Request 






810 


KATHARINE E. CONWAY. 




The Sea-divided Gaels 


. 810 


BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH 


. 12 
. 767 


The Gobhan Saer 

The Death of Hudson 


811 


Two Vines 


. 811 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 



John Boyle O'Reilly ....... Portrait, Face Title 

Thomas Moore ......... Portrait (Steel) 31 

The Harp that once through Tara's Halls (Steel) 32 

Rich and Rare were the Gems she wore ...... (Steel) 34 

Eveleen (Steel) 37 

Robert Emmet Portrait (Steel) 47 

The Minstrel Boy . " . . . . . . . . . .51 

Come Rest in this Bosom ......... 58 

Lallah Rookh (Steel) 69 

The Veiled Prophet 83 

The Bereaved Mother (Steel) 176 

Samuel Lover ........ Portrait (Steel) 179 

The Angel's Whisper 180 

Music (Steel) 185 

Gerald, Ninth Earl of Kildare Portrait (Steel) 187 

Ruins on the Rock of Cashel .......... 197 

The Shannon . .(Steel) 202 

Dean Swift Portrait (Steel) 219 

Francis Mahoney (Father Prout) ... . . . . Portrait (Steel) 221 

Church and Round Tower of St. Canice, Kilkenny ...... 314 

Ruins of Clonmacnoise .......... 316 

King Brian before the Battle of Clontarf ....... 394 

Richard Brinsley Sheridan ....... Portrait (Steel) 422 

Queen Margaret's Feasting ......... 458 

Saint Patrick and the Bard ......... 468 

The Patriot Bishop of Ross ......... 483 

The Fate of King Dathi 503 

Marriage of Eva and Strongbow ....... (Steel) 506 

O'Connell Memorial ......... (Steel) 530 

Honor the Brave .......... (Steel) 538 

Samuel Ferguson ........ Portrait (Steel) 605 

The Forging of the Anchor ......... 634 

Carolan, the celebrated Irish Bard ......... 644 

JohnBanim Portrait (Steel) 658 

Charles Lever Portrait (Steel) 661 

John Philpot Curran ........ Portrait (Steel) 678 

Charles Gavan Duffy ........ Portrait (Steel) 685 

King Brian Boroimhe killed by the Viking ...... (Steel) 686 

Carrickfergus Castle ......... (Steel) 688 

John Boyle O'Reilly's Study " . 751 

The Return of The Irish Exile ......... 808 



BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES' 

OF THE 

POETS OF IRELAND 

AND GIVING PAGE WHERE POEMS OF EACH CAN BE FOUND IN THIS VOLUME. 



WM. ALLINGHAM. 



Wm. Allingham, poet and writer, born 1828 at Ballyshannon, County Done- 
gal, Ireland, to which picturesque locality he often refers in his lyrics. At a 
veiy early age he displayed marked literary taste. He served in the English 
Customs, meantime contributing to the Athenaeum, Household Words and 
other periodicals. The first volume of his poems was published in 1850, followed 
in 1854 by his "Day and Night Songs." In 1869 he brought out "Laurence 
Bloomfield in Ireland," its characteristic features of Irish life being a subject 
new to narrative poetry. Eetiring from the Customs in 1872 he in 1874 suc- 
ceeded James A. Froude as Editor of Frazer's Magazine. His marriage with 
Miss Helen Patterson, the artist, took place the same year. (Poems, page, 598.) 

JOHN ANSTEK. 

John Anster, LL.D., a distinguished poet and essayist, was born at Charle- 
ville, in the county of Cork in 1796. He entered Trinity college, Dublin, in the 
year 1810. Some of his earlier pieces were published before he took his degree. 
Subsequently to that period, he published a prize poem on the death of the 
Princess Charlotte, and in 1819 he published his " Poems, with translations from 
the German." These were at once received into favor. The truth and vigor 
of the translated extracts from " Faust " were at once acknowledged, and it is 
said that the great German poet himself recognized their excellence. These 
extracts were reprinted in England and America, and their success encouraged 
Anster to undertake the laborious task of translating the entire poem, which 



10 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF 

he completed in 1835. The publication of this work established the reputation 
of Anster. It is a production of rare felicity and genius, and one of the few 
instances in which translation attains to the level of original composition. In 
1837, Dr. Anster published a small volume of poems under the title of " Xeniola," 
which contains many pieces of merit. He also contributed largely to the lead- 
ing British periodicals, and was a constant writer in ' ' The Dublin University 
Magazine," and the " North British Review." He was called to the Irish bar 
in 1824. During his later years he confined himself to the duties of his chair as 
regius professor of civil law in the University of Dublin. His literary services 
were recognized by a pension on the civil list, conferred upon him in 1841. 
(Poems, page 675.) 

JOHN BANIM. 

John Banim, a talented and popular novelist, was born in Kilkenny, April 
3, 1798. After a collegiate course, his artistic tastes urged him to adopt paint- 
ing as a profession. Studying faithfully and successfully for two years at the 
academy of the Royal Dublin Society, he returned to his native city as a portrait 
painter; he also edited the Leinster Gazette. In 1820, we find him again in 
Dublin engaged in literary pursuits, but discouraged and disheartened with the 
product of his labors, until the production of his tragedy of "Damon and 
Pythias." This play, which was brought out at Covent Garden Theatre, 
Macready and Charles Kemble supporting the principal characters, established 
his reputation. The first series of the popular " Tales by the O'Hara family " 
was published in 1825, the last in 1829. They are "The Peep o' Day," "The 
Smuggler," "The Disowned," " The Fetches, " and "The Nowlans." These 
tales were the joint production of John and Michael Banim, and although 
highly sensational are web and powerfully written. John Banim was a hope- 
less invalid from Ms thirty-first year, and the close of his lif e was overshadowed 
by much privation and misfortune. Death ended his suffering in 1842 in the 
forty-fourth year of his age. (Poems, page 358.) 

MRS. M. E. BLAKE. 

Mrs. Mary E. Blake is one of Boston's sweetest poets. Her maiden-name 
was McG-rath. She was born September, 1S40, at Dungarvan, county Waterf ord, 
Ireland, and came to America when six years old. She married Dr. John G-. 
Blake, of Boston, in 1865 ; and has resided since in Boston — formerly in Quincy, 
Mass. Mrs. Blake is a poet of extensive range. She published a volume of 
"Poems" in 1882. (Boston: Houghton, Mifflin and Co.) (Poems, page 769.) 

FRANCES BROWNE. 

Frances Browne (The Blind Poetess) was born in the County Donegal, June 
16, ISIS. Her loss of sight was owing to a severe attack of small pox during 



THE POETS OF IRELAND. II 

her infancy, which left this deplorable mark of its presence. Her early educa- 
tion was acquired through the attention with which she listened to the instruc- 
tions given her sisters and brother; her natural literary tastes requiring but 
little assistance to grow to perfect fruition. As early as her seventh year, her 
desire for verse-making made itself manifest. In 1844 her first volume of poems 
was published and received with much favor. "The Legends of Ulster," a 
volume of "Lyrics" and " Miscellaneous Poems " soon followed. Taking up 
her residence in London, her sister accompanied her, acting as her amanuensis. 
Here she became a contributor to the leading periodicals of the day. Her novels 
" The Hidden Sin " and the " Ericksons " acquired much popularity. In 1861 
she published " My Thoughts of the World." (Poems, page 800.) 

J. J. CALLANAN 

J. J. Callanan was born in Cork in 1795, and was intended by his parents 
for the priesthood. After a preparatory classical course in his native city, he 
entered Maynooth College at seventeen. At twenty, he found that he had mis- 
taken his vocation, and he left the college. The next year he took two prizes 
in a poetical competition, and this decided his profession. He entered Trinity 
College to study medicine, and continued there for two years. He was full of 
literary projects; but they were not carried out. He was morbidly sensitive; and 
his unsettled aim and dependence increased his unrest. In 1827 he was a teacher 
in a school in Lisbon, Portugal, where his fatal illness came upon him. His 
moral qualities were of a veiy high order. Those who knew him well speak of 
him as scrupulously truthful, and honorable almost to romance. He was meek 
and charitable in speech to a degree not very common in those days. He never 
spoke ill of man; no injury could provoke him to it. Ingratitude itself did 
not awaken in him a spirit of resentment. Add to these qualities a rare gentle- 
ness of manner, and it is no wonder that he was, as is told, very dear to all that 
had intercourse with him. (Poems, page 551.) 

WILLIAM CAKLETON. 

Wm. Carleton, novelist, was born at Clogher, county Tyrone, 1798. In- 
tended for the Church he, in his twelfth year, started on foot to attend a classi- 
cal school in Munster. On the way the kindness of the peasantry provided him 
with bed and board. Disheartened, he returned, but had gained such a knowl- 
edge of the manners and customs of the people that, though the Church, perhaps, 
lost a gifted ornament, literature secured the most successful descriptive writer 
of the peasant character of Ireland. In turn village tutor in Louth and classical 
teacher in Dublin, he later devoted himself to literature, producing his Traits 
and Stories of the Irish peasantry. He died in Dublin, 1869. (Poems, page 
695;) 



12 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OK 

HENEY BERNARD CARPENTER. 

Rev. Henry Bernard Carpenter, the successor of Rev. Thomas Starr King, 
and Pastor of Hollis St. Church, Boston, Mass., was born in Ireland in the 
year 1840. He sprang from two old and honored families in Kilkenny and 
Derry. His early training and taste for ancient and modern literature he de- 
rived from his father, a clergyman of the once Established Church of Ireland, 
and an excellent classical scholar. After five years' residence at Oxford, where 
he was prizeman, honorman, and exhibitioner of his college, he was appointed 
by Her Majesty's Commissioners of Education in Ireland as tutor and assistant- 
master in the upper department of Portora Royal Collegiate School, often called 
"the Eton of Ireland." As a lecturer on classic and historic themes, he has 
obtained celebrity in the New England states and in Canada, where he began 
his career about twelve years ago. Discharging all the duties of the religious 
society, to which he has ministered for nearly eight years, Rev. Bernard Car- 
penter devotes his hard-earned leisure to the poetic studies to which he is most 
ardently attached. (Poems, page 785.) 

WILLIAM CONGREVE. 

William Congreve, an eminent dramatist, was born of Dublin parents, at 
Bardsey Grange, near Leeds, in 1670. Returning to Dublin he received his early 
•education at Kilkenny and afterward at Trinity College, Dublin. While study- 
ing law at the Middle Temple, his love for literature asserted itself, and setting 
aside his legal studies he applied himself to writing for the stage. The novel 
Incognita was published under the fictitious name of " Cleophil." His comedy 
"the " Old Bachelor " was received with gTeat favor at the Drury Lane Theatre 
in 1693. He subsequently produced " Love for Love," " Double Dealer," " The 
Mourning Bride," and " The Way of the World." 

" Love for Love " is Congreve's masterpiece. The general tone of his writ- 
ings savors much of immorality, and their popularity indicates the spirit of the 
rimes. He was ruined by the adulation heaped upon him by the most distin- 
guished men 6f his time. Pope honored him by dedicating to him his Iliad. 
Diyden was extravagance itself in his praise. After years of suffering from 
blindness and bodily weakness he died January 19, 1729. (Poems, page 677.) 

KATHARINE E. CONWAY. 

Miss Katharine E. Conway was born of Irish Catholic parents at Roches- 
ter, New York, September, 1853. Her first literary work was contributed to the 
daily press of that city. She has since written much in prose and poetry for 
New York and other periodicals, and in 1883 produced a volume of poems en- 
titled " On the Sunrise Slope." She was for some years a member of the edi- 



. THE POETS OF IRELAND. 13 

torial staff of the Buffalo " Catholic Union and Times," and is now connected 
with the Boston " Pilot." (Poems, page 767.) 

JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN 

John Philpot Curran, a brilliant popular orator, was horn at Newmarket, 
county Cork, July, 1750. His ready wit attracted the attention of the Rector, 
Rev. Win. Boyse, who sent him to Middleton College, whence he was trans- 
planted to Trinity College, Dublin, in 1767. He studied Law at the Middle 
Temple and on his call to the Bar returned to Ireland in 1775. From 17S3 to 
1797 in the Irish Parliament he advocated emancipation and reform. There- 
he was the " assistant most demanded," whilst in court " he was the advocate 
deemed essential." His defence of Hamilton Rowan stands unequalled. He 
resigned the Mastership of the Rolls in 1816, and died in London from an 
apoplectic attack, Octobei', 1S17, in the sixty-eighth year of bus age. (Poems, 
page 678.) 

THOMAS DAVIS. 

See memoir by John Mitchel, preceding Poems, page 479. 

AUBREY DE VERE. 

Thos. Aubrey De Vere, poet and political writer; born in county Limerick 
in 1814. Educated at Trinity College, Dublin. Devoting his leisure to travel 
and literature, almost every year since 1S42 beheld some production of his pro- 
lific pen. Amongst his poetic works, are "Recollections of Greece," and 1843, 
"Poems Miscellaneous and Sacred;" 1S56, "Inisfail;" 1861, "Alexander the 
Great;" a dramatic poem, 1874- His prose works include " Church Settlement 
of Ireland," 1866, and in 1878 Correspondence Religious and Philosophical, 
entitled " Proteus and Amadeus." (Poems, page 445.) 

CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. 

Charles Gavan Duffy, the son of a Monaghan farmer, of Celtic extrac- 
tion, was born in 1816. In his 10th year he went to Dublin, friendless and un- 
known; but determining on becoming an author, he obtained employment on 
the newspaper press. He next became the editor of an influential newspaper 
in Belfast. He returned to Dublin in 1841, and connected himself with " The 
Mountain " of the O'Connell party. In 1842 he started " The Nation," as an 
educational journal, to create and foster public opinion in Ireland, and to make 
it racy of the soil. In five years Mr. Duffy collected a party, afterward known 
as " Young Ireland. " In 1844 he was a fellow-prisoner with O'Connell in Rich- 
mond jail, Dublin; he acted in concert with O'Connell until 1847, when he left 
the Repeal Association, and was one of the founders of the Irish Confederation. 



14 BIOGKAPHICAL SKETCHES OF 

He was tried for treason and felony in 1848-9, but after several ineffectual 
attempts, the prosecution was abandoned by the Government. He then re- 
sumed " The Nation," which had been suspended, which he limited to social 
reforms, such as landlord and tenant right, in support of which was f ormed the 
"Independent Irish Party" in Parliament. Mr. Duffy was elected in 1852 
member for the borough of New Eoss, but resigned his seat in 1856, on proceed- 
ing to Australia. He has since held office twice in the government of Victoria 
as Minister of Public Lands and Works, and was sent for by the governor to 
form an administration during a severe ministerial crisis of 1860, but declined 
on his excellency's hesitating to grant the power of dissolving Parliament. Mr. 
Duffy, on his arrival in Victoria, was presented with a handsome estate by the 
Irish of that colony. Mr. Duffy has been thrice married. He is a banister, 
but has never practised. (Poems, page 685.) 

SAMUEL FERGUSON. 

Samuel Ferguson, poet and writer of historical romance, was born in Belfast, 
Ireland, in 1815. He was educated at the Belfast Academical Institute, also at 
the University of Dublin, which gave him the degree of LLD., in 1S65. He 
was admitted to the Irish bar in 1838. Ferguson (the original of which is 
McFergus) is a descendant from an ancient Celtic family; which ancestry is 
accountable for the wonderful power and energy, combined with the sweetness 
and descriptive beauty, which are the leading characteristics of his writings. 

During Ins earlier years, the practice of law becoming distasteful, his youth- 
ful imagination found more enjoyment in gratifying his natural love of litera- 
ture. He became a contributor to the Dublin University Magazine, in whose 
pages first appeared his fine romances of Irish History, ' ' The Rebellion of 
Silken Thomas " and " Corbie McGihnore. " His genius as ballad -writer alone 
is sufficient to build his poetic reputation. " The Forging of the Anchor " has 
of its own excellence become famous, and " The Welshmen of Tirawley " shows 
in eveiy line the powerful poetic genius of the author. Samuel Ferguson's 
" Lays of the Western Gael " breathe the genuine spirit of the Irish bards. As 
a translator of Irish ballads he is unrivalled. The latter years of Ferguson's 
life have been devoted almost entirely to his profession, working faithfully and 
earnestly. He acquired a high and honorable position at the Irish bar, and has 
been honored — if social title be an honor for a poet — With a baronetcy. He died 
in August, 18S6. (Poems, page 604.) 

OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 

Oliver Goldsmith was born at Pallas, in the county of Longford, Ireland, 
November 10, 1728. His father was a poor curate of the Established Church. 
As a child, Oliver was remarkably dull, and was pronounced by his teacher an 



THE POETS OF IRELAND. 15 

incorrigible dunce. Entering Trinity College (as a sizar) in his seventeenth 
year, he was noted for his inattention to his studies, and took his degree in 1749 
as last on the list of graduates. After leaving the University he made futile 
efforts to enter the church, also to secure a livelihood in the professions of 
teaching, law and medicine. Disgusted and disappointed he travelled on foot 
over a considerable portion of the continent, paying for his food and lodgings 
by playing the flute. Arriving in England penniless, in 1756, he varied his 
occupation, as chemist's clerk, usher in a school, book-seller's apprentice, and 
medical practitioner. After a period of obscure drudgery, devoted to writing 
tales for children, articles for magazines and critical reviews, he became con- 
tributor to the Public Ledger. Under the title " Letters from a Citizen of the 
World," these publications attracted popular notice. His beautiful poem " The 
Traveller," the plan of which was sketched from his journeyings through 
Europe, was the beginning of his literary fame. " The Vicar of Wakefield," 
" The Good-natured Man," "The Deserted Village " following in quick succes- 
sion, he was acknowledged one of the leading writers of his time. In 1773 his 
comedy of "She Stoops to Conquer" won a triumphant success at Covent 
Garden Theatre. He was surrounded by the leading artists, statesmen, and 
writers of the day; he was also a member of the famous Literary Club. His 
inability to keep out of debt made him the slave of booksellers; his historical 
works were written to meet the wants of these creditors, and are not up to the 
general standard of his writings. He died in 1774 deeply mourned by his friends 
and by the many recipients of his charity. (Poems, page 427.) 

GEEALD GEIFFIN. 

Gerald Griffin, a most popular and talented Irish novelist and dramatist, 
was born in Limerick, December 12, 1803. As his parents desired him to study 
medicine he remained with an elder brother, Dr. Griffin, while they emigrated 
to the United States in 1820. His tastes inclining more to literature, he early 
contributed to Limerick newspapers, and in his nineteenth year wrote his 
drama of "Aguire." His brother, recognizing in Gerald the stamp of literary 
genius, encouraged him to go to London to work for fame and fortune. 
"Gisippus" was published while yet twenty, and at twenty-five "The 
Collegians " was written. Unable to procure a manager who would purchase 
his dramas, he grew despondent. His ambition to write for the stage receiv- 
ing a chill from which he never recovered, he turned his attention to writing 
for magazines and soon acquired a brilliant reputation. But success had come 
too late; his health had become undermined by his unceasing toil, long vigils 
and disappointments. His " Holland Tide," " Tales of the Munster Festivals, " 
" The Rivals," " The Invasion," " The Duke of Monmouth," a second series of 
" Tales of the Munster Festivals," etc., prove his ability to perform the tasks to 
which he set himself. His poems are creations of a singularly beautiful and 



16 BIOGKAPIIICAL SKETCHES OF 

chaste imagination. His deeply religious nature yearning after a more perfect 
life, found its desire gratified in joining the Society of Christian Brothers. 

He died in Cork, June 12, 1840. After his death his tragedy of " Gisippus " 
was successf idly Drought out at Drury Lane Theatre. ' ' The Collegians ' ' has 
been successfully dramatized by Dion Boucicault as "The Colleen Bawn." 
(Poems, page 199.) 

LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY. 

Louise Imogen Guiney, the only child of General Patrick Kobert Guiney, 
was born in Boston, January, 7th, 1861, her childish associations being mainly 
with camps and soldiers. She graduated from the Academy of the Sacred 
Heart, Elmhurst, Providence, R. I., in 1879, and began writing in the fol- 
lowing year, publishing " Songs at the Start " in 1884, and " GoosequiU Papers " 
in 1S85. (Poems, page 717.) 

EOBEKT DWYER JOYCE. 

Dr. Robert Dwyer Joyce, an eminent physician and celebrated poet, was 
born in Ireland about 1831. His poems are exclusively Irish in their subjects, 
he having had an intense love and appreciation for the legends and literature 
of his native country. His first venture, a volume of ballads, romances and 
songs, was published in Dublin in 1861. All his subsequent writings were 
published in Boston, Mass., which city he made his residence during the last 
seventeen years of his life, and where he enjoyed a position as one of the leading 
lights in the literary and social world. In 1868 and 1871, appeared "Legends 
of the Wars in Ireland," and "Fireside Stories of Ireland," followed by 
' ' Ballads of Irish Chivalry. ' ' His finest work, ' ' Deirdre, ' ' was published in 1S76. 
This immediately won universal popularity, 10,000, copies being sold in a few 
days. His last poem, " Blanid," also merits much praise and won much favor. 
His desire to write a long poem on " The Courtship of Irnar," was not gratified, 
failing health making it necessary to cease all labor. 

In the hope of regaining strength he sought his native land, where he died 
on the 23d of October, 1S83, in less than two months after reaching its shores. 
Dr. Joyce was one of the leading medical practitioners of Boston, and was greatly 
beloved by aU who knew him. (Poems, page 707.) 

CHARLES JAMES LEVER. 

Charles James Lever, a most successful Irish novelist, was born in Dublin, 
August 31, 1806. He was educated for the medical profession, having taken 
his degree at Trinity College, also a degree at Gottingen, where he afterward 
studied. During the cholera which visited Ireland in 1832, as medical super- 
intendent, he acquired notable repute for his ability and skill in coping with 



THE POETS OF IRELAND. 17 

the disease. Shortly afterward he became attached to the British Legation at 
Brussels in his professional capacity. During this time he published as a serial 
the novel " Harry Lorrequer," which met with unbounded popularity. Other 
novels followed in rapid succession: " Charles O'Malley," " Jack Hinton," Our 
Mess," " The O'Donoghue," " The Dodd Family Abroad," " Arthur O'Leary," 
and a host of others, in fact a whole library of graphic sketches introducing 
amusing incidents of Irish life and character. His anonymous writings are 
almost as numerous, among the best of which are his " Diary of Horace Tem- 
pleton" and "ConCregan." Most of his life was passed on the Continent, 
being appointed to a consular post on the Mediterranean. He died at Trieste 
in 1872. (Poems, page 661.) 

SAMUEL LOVEE. 

Samuel Lover, novelist, poet, musician and artist, was born in Dublin, 
Ireland, 1797. His paintings, which were exhibited at the Boyal Academy- in 
1833, gained for him the notice of the public, and he became miniature painter 
to the local aristocracy, at the same time cultivating his taste for literature, 
"Legends and Shrines of Ireland," published in 1832 in Dublin, was his first 
venture; the illustrations were by himself. This book won such a reputation 
and became so popular, that a second edition was published in 1834. Taking 
up his residence in London he contributed largely to the literature of the time, 
also writing some of the wittiest novels in the English language. Of these 
" Rory O'More " and " Handy Andy " have been dramatized. His other works 
are " Treasure Trove," " Lyrics of Ireland," " Metrical Tales," and other poems. 
Nest to Thomas Moore he is the best known and most popular writer of Irish 
songs. The best known of them are, " Rory O'More," " Molly Bawn," " The 
Low- Backed Car," and "The Angel's Whisper." He was very popular in 
society, where he sang his own songs. His visit to the United States in 1847" 
proved him a general favorite. He died in 1868. (Poems, page 179.) 



DR. WILLIAM MAGINN. 

Dr. Wm. Magestn, a distinguished writer, born in Cork, July, 1793. At ten he 
entered Trinity College, Dublin, graduating in his fourteenth year. He returned 
to Cork, assisting in his father's school, in which, later, he succeeded as princi- 
pal. In 1816 he received the degree of Doctor of Laws. His contributions to 
the Literary Gazette and Blackwood's Magazine gained him first rank in litera- 
ture. He became junior Editor of the Standard in 1828, and the following 
year, in conjunction with the owner, projected Fraser's Magazine. After de- 
tention for debt in 1842, he retired to Walton-on-Thames where he died of con- 
sumption, at the age of forty-nine. (Poems, page 681.) 



18 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OE 

FEANCIS MAHONEY ("FATHER PROUT"). 

Rev. Francis Mahoney (" Father Prout"), a charming poet and versatile 
writer, was born in Cork about 1803. Entering college at an early age he com- 
pleted his academic course, with much credit and finally was admitted to the 
priesthood, and appointed curate to Father Prout, an old clergyman who resided 
some eight miles from Cork. While fulfilling his duties in this quiet country 
district, Father Mahoney sent many successful contributions to the Cork jour- 
nals under the signature "Father Prout," much to the bewilderment of the 
good old priest. Articles sent to London periodicals and Fraser's Magazine 
meeting with favorable reception, he became weary of the monotony of a poor 
curate's life, and allured by the desire of literary fame, he abandoned his pro- 
fession and entered the world of letters. In London his genius met with the 
recognition it deserved, and a rivalry ensued among the leading journals as to 
which should secure his services. Finding the atmosphere of Paris more to his 
tastes, he went to reside there in his fortieth year, and was correspondent of 
two daily English journals, the News and Globe, He contributed his whimsi- 
cal papers " The Reliques of Father Prout," to Fraser's Magazine. These were 
afterwards published in book form. His " Bells of Shandon " and " Groves of 
Blarney" have enjoyed a world-wide reputation. He died in Paris, May 19, 
1866. His remains were brought to Cork and buried under the shadow of 
Shandon steeple. (Poems, page 221 .) 

JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 

James Clarence Mangan was born in Dublin in 1803. His father, a grocer, 
becoming bankrupt, James, was in his fifteenth year obliged to earn a livelihood. 
He drudged as a scrivener for seven years, from five o'clock in the morning 
until eleven at night, and afterwards became solicitor's clerk for three years. 
His earnings went toward the support of himself and parents. This period of 
his fife he afterwards refers- to as a time when a special providence prevented 
him from committing suicide. Obtaining an engagement in the magnificent 
library of Trinity College, he took advantage of means at his disposal, and ac- 
quired a proficiency in many languages. In his twenty-seventh year he published 
poetical translations from the German and Irish, which appeared in the Dublin 
University. His German translations were afterwards collected and published 
under the title of ' ' Anthologica Germanica. ' ' His translations from the ancient 
Gaelic bards, show wonderful fidelity in adhering to the spirit and metre of the 
original. These won for him the friendship of Dr. Petre and Eugene O'Curry, 
which he prized very dearly. He became a regular contributor to the Dublin 
Nation, The United Irishman and The Dublin University, and for these he 
wrote exquisite translations, some of which are said to surpass even the original, 
such as ' ' Lays of Many Lands, ' ' and ' ' Literse Orientales. ' ' He also contributed 



THE POETS OF IRELAND. 19 

numerous original poems, noted for their chaste expression and exquisite pathos. 
Among the best known are "Dark Eosaleen " and "O Woman of Three 
Cows"(?). 

Of the most exquisite sensibility and fine impulses, his life-long poverty and 
misery threw a cloud over his entire existence, and seeking solace in stimulants, 
which undermined his health, he broke down under the weight of disease, and 
at his own request was admitted to Meath Hospital, where he died June 13, 1849. 
(Poems, page 337.) 

DENIS FLORENCE MCCARTHY. 
Denis Florence McCarthy, poet, born in Dublin 1820. Composed ballads, 
poems, and lyrics, chiefly based on Irish traditioDS, written in a patriotic spirit 
and published in 1850. The volume includes translations from nearly every 
European language. His translation of Calderon's poems into English verse, 
with notes, was published in 1S53. He has also written "Bell-founder" and 
other poems, " Shelley's Early Life," etc. In 1871 he received a pension in con- 
sideration of his merit as a poet. He died in 1S82. (Poems, page 297.) 

THOMAS DARCY McGEE. 

D' Arcy McGee was born in Carlingford, Ireland, on April 13, 1825, and died 
by the hands of a fanatic assassin in Ottawa, Canada, April 7, 1868. In 1842 
he emigrated to America, taking up his residence in Boston, where he became 
editor of Tlie Pilot, the leading Irish- American newspaper in America. In 
1845, he returned to Ireland, and was engaged by the Dublin Freeman to report 
the Parliamentary debates. In 1S46, he joined the staff of the Dublin Nation, 
and became a leading figure in the Young Ireland movement. In 1S49, he again 
came to America, where he published, during nine years, Tlie Neiv York 
Nation, afterwards The American Celt. He became nationally known as a 
lecturer, organizer and poet. In 1857, he went to reside in Montreal, Canada, 
where he published a paper called Tlie Neiv Era. He was soon elected to Par- 
liament, and was re-elected every year till his death. He was twice a member 
of the Canadian ministry, as Secretary for Agriculture and Emigration, and 
once as President of the Executive Council. It was he who framed the draft 
for the confederation of the British American colonies, which has since been 
substantiated. He was returning from Parliament on the night of April 7, 1868, 
when he was shot at the door of his hotel by a man named Whalen, who was, 
it was charged on his trial, a Fenian agent; but was in all probability a self- 
acting lunatic. D Arcy McGee published many books, all of deep research and 
wide interest. Particularly interesting are his " Irish Settlers in North America 
from the Earliest Periods to 1850" (Boston, 1857); " O'ConnellandHis Friends;" 
" Popular History of Ireland," etc. His poems were published by Sadlier and 
Co., New York, with an introduction by Mrs. Sadleir. Poems, page 808.) 



20 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF 

THOMAS MOOEE. 

Thomas Moore, the greatest Irish lyrist, was bom in Dublin, May 28, 1770. In 
his eleventh year, an epilogue written by him was read at Lady Borrowe's private 
theatre, in Dublin. His teacher, Mr. Whyte, also instructor of Richard Brinsley 
Sheridan, encouraged the dramatic tastes of his pupils, and Moore became noted 
even in his early youth for his proficiency in music and theatrical effects. On 
the opening of Trinity College to Catholics, Moore entered to study law; here 
he distinguished himself as a successful and brilliant student, and here he be- 
came the friend of Bobert Emmet, who was also a student there. During this 
period Moore contributed to leading periodicals, and at home studied French, 
Italian and Music. His translation from the Greek " Odes of Anacreon " prov- 
ing a success, Moore threw aside his law and entered upon literature as a pro- 
fession. In 1803, he received a government appointment at Bermuda, but 
becoming dissatisfied, he appointed a deputy as substitute and travelled over 
the United States and Canada before returning to England. His "Odes and 
Epistles " were published in 1806. Five years afterwards he married a young 
Irish actress, Miss Bessy Dykes, and settled in the neighborhood of his friend 
Lord Moira. For his Eastern romance " Lalla Roohk, " published in 1817, he 
was paid £3000, and it was received with universal approbation. His news- 
paper contributions added greatly to his income, yet whde enjoying literary 
success, he became indebted to the amount of £6000 through the dishonesty of 
his deputy. To cancel this debt was his most earnest ambition. During this 
period he travelled through France and Italy, writing ' ' The Fudge Family in 
Faris, " " Loves of the Angels, ' ' and ' ' Rhymes on the Road. ' ' Clearing his in- 
debtedness, he returned to England, where he produced in 1825 a biography of 
R. B. Sheridan, in 1830 a "Life of Lord Byron," and completed in 1834 his 
" Irish Melodies," which have made him famous. His family relations were of 
the happiest character, and in his social life he was universally admired and 
sought after. He died in 1852. (Poems, page 31.) 

JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 

John Boyle O'Reilly was born in Dowth Castle, county Meath, Ireland, 
June 28, 1844. His father, William David O'Reilly, was a scholar and an anti- 
quarian, and his mother, Eliza Boyle, was a woman of an extremely rare and 
beautiful nature. John Boyle O'Reilly became a journalist in early manhood, 
and at twenty-one years of age was a revolutionist, arrested, tried for high 
treason, and sentenced to twenty years imprisonment in an English penal colony. 
At twenty-five he escaped from West Australia, and came to America. He 
has lived in Boston since 1S69. He is the editor and part proprietor of The 
Pilot, perhaps the most widely known Irish- American newspaper. He has 
published five books: — " Songs from the Southern Seas," " Songs, Legends and 



THE POETS OF IRELAND. 21 

Ballads," "Moondyne," "The Statues in the Block," "In Bohemia," and in 
union with three other authors, "The King's Men: a Tale of To-morrow." 
(Poems, page 751.) 

AKTHUB O'SHAUGHNESSY. 

Arthur (William Edgar) O'Shaughnessy was a poet of great beauty and 
simplicity. He was born March 14, 1844. Obtaining a position at the British 
Museum as transcriber, after two years he was promoted to the Natural History 
Department. A volume containing many of Iris best poems was published in 
1870 under the title of an "Epic of Women." Among his other productions 
may be mentioned "Lays of France" and "Music and Moonlight." His 
" Songs of a Worker " were published in 18S1 after his death, which occurred 
in January 30 the same year. (Poems, page 730.) 

THOMAS PABNELL. 

Thomas Parnell was born in Dublin in 1679, in which city he received his 
education and was finally elevated to the ministry in 1703. In 1705, then 
Archdeacon of Clogher, he married a lady noted for her beauty and general 
excellence of character. His annual excursions to England, where he spent 
months at a time, living luxuriously, rather diminished than advanced his 
fortune. 

When the Whigs were in power, he was the friend of Addison, Congreve and 
Steele; during the ascendancy of the Tories, his former friends were neglected, 
and Swift, Pope, Gay and Arbuthnot became his companions. The death of 
his wife, in 1712, proved a severe blow, from the effects of which he never 
rallied. To drown his misery he had recourse to stimulants, and his intemper- 
ance shortened his life. A collection of his poems was published by Pope. 
Although not a poet of the first rank, his poems merit considerable praise for 
their melodic sweetness, clearness of language, and generally pleasing style. 
He died July, 1717. The great National leader and agitator of Ireland, Charles 
Stewart Parnell, is a direct descendant of the poet; and his gifted sister, Fanny 
Parnell, inherited the poetic genius of her ancestor. (Poems, page 472.) 

FANNY PABNELL. 

Fanny Parnell, second sister of the National leader of Ireland, Charles 
Stewart Parnell, was one of four daughters of John H. and Delia L. S. Parnell, 
and was bom at Avondale, the family estate, in county Wicklow, Ireland, about 
the year 184S. She was carefully trained at home, and though a Protestant, 
was sent, as many of the children of leading Irish families are, from Ireland to 
have her education finished at a convent in Paris. The brightness which her 
early years has shown was augmented by a thorough education. 






22 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF 

In the roomy old house at Avondale Manor she passed some years. Here, 
in the midst of the wild and picturesque scenery of Wicklow and Wexford, she 
found much to nurture, not only her poetic temperament, but those national 
aspirations which have since distinguished the family. As romantic as any 
dreamy maiden could wish was the site of her home on the edge of the deep 
vale in which the Avon rushed on to meet the Avoca, which Moore has im- 
mortalized. 

Shortly after the foundation of the Irish People in Dublin, the organ of the 
Fenian Brotherhood, Fanny Parnell became a contributor to the poetic columns. 
Here, under the signature of "Alerta," she gave vent to her patriotic feelings. 
From the decline of the Fenian movement to the birth of the Land Agitation 
we find scarcely any literary work from her hand. Her lyre would only respond 
to one breeze — nationality. A few years ago, when she first began to write the 
powerful "Land League Songs," her name was quite unknown. Before she 
had published half a dozen of those extraordinary poems, extraordinary for 
their magnetic and almost startling force, as well as rhythmical beauty, it was 
recognized by those who watched-f or signs that the Land League had got that 
which crystallizes the efforts and aspirations of a popular movement — a Poet. 
Every note she struck was true and strong and timely. 

Her death was mourned by the whole Irish race. She died suddenly on the 
20th of July, 1882, at the Old Ironsides mansion, her mother's home, near Bor- 
dentown, N. J. She is buried in Mt. Auburn cemetery, near Boston, and her 
grave is decorated with flowers every year, on Memorial Day, by delegates from 
the Irish societies of Boston. (Poems, page 742.) 

JAMES JEFFEEY ROCHE. 
James Jeffrey Eoche was born in Queens county, Ireland, May 31, 1847. 
His parents emigrated in that year to Prince Edward Island, where he spent his 
youth, being educated in St. Dunstan's College in that province. He has lived 
in Boston since 1866, contributing to various periodicals occasionally until 1883, 
when he joined the editorial staff of the Boston Pilot, with which he is still 
connected. (Poems, page 712.) 

O'DONOVAN ROSSA. 

Jeremiah O' Donovan Ross a, better known, perhaps, as a patriot and revo- 
lutionist than a poet, was born in Rosscarberry, county Cork, Ireland, in 
September, 1831. His life has been eventful. In 1858, he was arrested and 
imprisoned for organizing the Phoenix Society, which was the immediate fore- 
runner of the great Fenian revolutionary brotherhood. In 1865 he was arrested 
again, this time for Fenianism, and sentenced to imprisonment for life. He 
was, with many other Irish patriots, released after seven years' imprisonment, 
and banished out of Ireland for twenty years. He is editor of a paper called 



THE POETS OF IRELAND. 23 

United Ireland, in New York. Nearly all his poems were written in English 
prisons; but his fine translations from the Gaelic have been recently made. 
(Poems, page 776.) 

REV. ABEAM J. RYAN. 

The Rev. Abram J. Ryan, nationally known as " The Poet-Priest of the 
South," was a Virginian by birth. He died of an organic heart trouble, at 
Louisville, Ky., on April 22, 1886, in the 46th year of his age. Father Ryan was 
pre-eminently the poet of the Southern Confederacy. He occupied in that 
ephemeral nation the enviable position described by the " very wise man " of 
whom old Fletcher of Saltoun wrote to the Marquis of Montrose, — "who be- 
lieved that if a man were permitted to make all the ballads, he need not care 
who should make the laws of a nation. " Henry Timrod, who died all too soon, 
had written some stirring lyrics for the South, but Father Ryan, who had just 
been ordained in 1861, threw himself heart and soul into the support of the 
Confederacy and followed its fortunes from beginning to end. (Poems, page 736.) 

The Rev. Wm. D. Kelly, a brother priest and poet, wrote the following 
tender sonnet on Father Ryan's death: — 

Tour saddest tears, O April skies, drop down, 

And let the voices of your sobbing breeze, 

Sigh the most plaintive of their threnodies 
For him, who, girt with sacerdotal gown, 
When war's wild tumult stirred each Southern town, 

And filled the land with its discordancies, 

Sang high above them all such melodies 
Their very sweetness won the South renown: 
Poet ! God rest thee, now thy songs are sung; 

Father ! heaven gain thee, now thy toil is o'er; 
"Whoever listened to thy tuneful tongue, 

Telling the mystic secrets of its lore, 
Trusts that thy voice, celestial choirs among, 

Hymns the new song of love forevermore. 

JOHN SAVAGE. 

John Savage, LL.D., a talented poet and miscellaneous writer, was born 
in Dublin, December 13, 1828. Receiving the advantages of a good education, 
and giving early evidences of artistic taste, he became a student at the Art 
School of the Royal Dublin Society. He was a prime actor in the Insurrection 
of '48, having edited a journal in the interest of the Young Ireland party, also 
assisting in arming the peasantry. For this interest, he was obliged to leave 
the country, and, escaping to New York, he contributed to a number of leading 
periodicals, and was connected with newspapers in New York, Washington and 
New Orleans. He edited the Manhattan, a monthly of much literary merit. 



24 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES OF 

An ardent supporter of the Union cause during the war of the Eebellion he 
wrote many popular war-songs. His publications include, besides, several vol- 
umes of poems, dramas, sketches and biographies. .(Poems, page 802.) 

EICHAKD BEINSLEY SHERIDAN. 

Richard Brinsley Sheridan, the renowned wit, orator and dramatist, was 
born in Dublin, October 31, 1751. He was the son of Mr. Thomas Sheridan, the 
tragedian, and grandson of Doctor Sheridan, the friend and correspondent of 
Swift. An impulsive marriage, made before completing his law studies, com- 
pelled him to have recourse to literature as a means of support. In his dramatic 
productions he achieved wonderful success, writing the ever-popular comedies, 
" The Rivals," and " The School for Scandal," the farce " The Critic," and the 
opera ' ' The Duenna. ' ' He became one of the proprietors of the Drury Lane 
Theatre in 1776. But the crowning glory of his life, was his Parliamentary 
career of thirty -two years. Here his unrivalled eloquence, and keen irony, found 
an ample field for then development, and the famous statesmen and orators, 
Burke, Pitt and Fox, had to look well to their laurels. His speech on the im- 
peachment of Warren Hastings was among his most brilliant orations. The 
burning of the Drury Lane Theatre and his extravagant habits, plunged him 
deeply in debt, and filled the latter days of his life with sorrow and disappoint- 
ment. He died July 7th, 1S16. (Poems, page 422.) 

JOHN STERLING. 

John Sterling was a native of Waterf ord, born in 1806. His family settled 
in London in 1824, where he entered Trinity College. He did not take his de- 
gree. He was an intimate friend of Coleridge, Wordsworth, and Carlyle. He 
died in 1S44. Archdeacon Hare published his works, and Carlyle wrote his 
biography. (Poems, page 668.) 

JONATHAN SWIFT. 

Jonathan Swift, a most celebrated wit and satirist, was born in Dublin, 
16G7. He Avas sent to school in Kilkenny and later to Trinity College, Dublin. 
In KISS he became secretary of Sir William Temple, a connection of Mrs. Swift 
by marriage, in whose service he remained six years. The position in this 
family was very humiliating to Swift's pride, although he acquired much bene- 
fit from his opportunities of increasing knowledge, and at the death of Sir 
William Temple, Swift edited his posthumous works. Failing to obtain a 
bishopric (which was his most earnest ambition), he was forced to be content 
as Dean of St. Patrick's, the duties of which office he assumed in 1713. 

During his frequent visits to England, he was courted and enjoyed by the 
most illustrious minds of his day. He formed what was called the Scribblers' 



THE POETS OF IRELAND. 25 

Club, with Pope, Gay and Arbuthnot. His first important work " The Tale of 
a Tub, "was published anonymously in 1704, " The Battle of the Books " soon 
followed. In 1724, by the anonymous " Drapier Letters *' published in a Dublin 
newspaper, he defended the rights of the Irish people with such warmth and 
skfil that he became universally popular. " Gulliver's Travels" appeared in 
1726. His miscellaneous writings are chiefly religious and political pamphlets. 
During his later years he suffered from deafness and mental infirmities; in 1741 
he passed into a condition of idiocy, from which death released him in 1745. 
In his will he made provision for the building of a hospital for the insane. 
(Poems, page 219.) 

KATHARINE TYNAN. 

Katharine Tynan was born at Clondalkin, county Dublin, Ireland, in the 
latter part of 1861. She began her literary career in her twentieth year, win- 
ning almost immediate recognition. She has contributed to the London Month, 
Merry England, The AthencBiim, and other leading publications. Her first vol- 
ume, " Louise de la VaUiere and other poems," appeared in 1885, was well re- 
ceived and went into a second edition in a few months. (Poems, page 721.) 

EDWARD WALSH. 

Edward Walsh was born hi Londonderry in the year 1805, and died in 
Cork on 6th August, 1850, in the forty-fifth year of his age. His father, who 
was a small farmer in the county of Cork, eloped with a young lady much above 
his own position in life. Shortly after marriage his difficulties increased, and 
to avoid them, he enlisted in the militia, and was quartered in Londonderry, 
where his son was born. Our author having received a good education, in early 
life became a private tutor. Some time after he taught school in Millstreet, 
county Cork, from which he removed in 1837, and went to teach in Toureen, 
where he first began to write for the Magazines. After some time he went up 
to Dublin, where he was elected schoolmaster to the convict station at Spike 
Island. In a year or two he left this place and became teacher at the Work- 
house in Cork, where he remained till his death. Two volumes of his poetical 
translations from the Irish have been published. He was a proficient in the 
fairy and legendary lore of the country. (Poems, page 699.) 

LADY WILDE ("SPERANZA.") 

Lady Wilde, the famous "Speranza," of the old Dublin Nation, is the 
mother of the poet and aesthete, Oscar Wilde, and the widow of the late eminent 
physician and archaeologist, Sir William Wilde, of Dublin. In the stormy days 
of "Young Ireland," from 1846 to 1S4S, the poems of "Speranza," next to 



26 BIOGEAPHICAL SKETCHES OF THE POETS OF IRELAND. 

those of Thomas Davis, were the inspiration of the National movement. Lady 
Wilde lives in London, where she is the centre of a distinguished literary and 
artistic circle. (Poems, page 762.) 

EEV. CHAELES WOLFE. 

Eev. Chaeles Wolfe was born at Dublin in 1791, and was educated at 
Trinity College. He became a curate at Castle Caulfield. He died of con- 
sumption in 1823. He was only a boy when he wrote one of the most perfect 
and most celebrated odes in the English language, "The Burial of Sir John 
Moore." (Poems, page 672.) 






POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 

IRISH MELODIES. 



It has often been remarked, and oftener felt, that our music is the truest of all com- 
ments upon our history. The tone of defiance, succeeded by the languor of despondency 
— a burst of turbulence dying away into softness — the sorrows of one moment lost in the 
levity of the next — and all that romantic mixture of mirth and sadness, which is naturally 
produced by the efforts of a lively temperament to shake off or forget the wrongs which 
lie upon it. Such are the features of our history and character, which we find strongly 
and faithfully reflected in our music; and there are many airs which, I think, it is difficult 
to listen to without recalling some period or event to which their expression seems pecu- 
liarly applicable. Sometimes, when the strain is open and spirited, yet shaded here and 
there by a mournful recollection, we can fancy that we behold the brave allies of Montrose * 
marching to the aid of the royal cause, notwithstanding all the perfidy of Charles and his 
ministers, and remembering just enough of past sufferings to enhance the generosity of 
their present sacrifice. The plaintive melodies of Carolan take us back to the times in 
which he lived, when our poor countrymen were driven to worship their God in caves, or 
to quit forever the land of their birth, (like the bird that abandons the nest which human 
touch has violated); and in many a song do we hear the last farewell of the exile, mingling 
regret for the ties he leaves at home, with sanguine expectations of the honors that await 
him abroad — such honors as were won on the field of Fontenoy, where the valor of Irish 
Catholics turned the fortune of the day in favor of the French, and extorted from George II. 
that memorable exclamation, " Cursed be the laws which deprive me of such subjects I" 

Though much has been said of the antiquity of our music, it is certain that our finest 
and most popular airs are modern; and perhaps we may look no further than the last dis- 
graceful century for the origin of most of those wild and melancholy strains which were at 
once the offspring and solace of grief, and which were applied to the mind as music was 
formerly to the bodyj "decantare loca dolentia." Mr. Pinkerton is of opinion that none 
of the Scotch popular airs are as old as the middle of the sixteenth century; and though 
musical antiquaries refer us for some of our melodies to so early a period as the fifth cen- 
tury, I am persuaded that there are few of a civilized description (and by this I mean to 
exclude all the savage ceanans, cries, f etc.) which can claim quite so ancient a date as 
Mr. Pinkerton allows to the Scotch. But music is not the only subject upon which our 
taste for antiquity is rather unreasonably indulged; and, however heretical it may be to 
dissent from these romantic speculations, I cannot help thinking that it is possible to love 
our country very zealously, and to feel deeply interested in her honor and happiness, 

* There are some gratifying accounts of the gallantry of these Irish auxiliaries in The Complete History of the Wars 
in Scotland under Montrose, (1660.) Clarendon owns that the Marquis of Montrose was indebted for much of his miraculous 
success to this small baud of Irish heroes under Maedonnell. 

t Of which some genuine specimens may be found at the end of Mr. Walker's worK upon the Irish Bards. Mr. Bun- 
ting has disfigured his last splendid volume by too many of those barbarous rhapsodies. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOOltE. 



without believing that Irish was the language spoken in Paradise* — that our ancestors 
were kind enough to take the trouble of polishing the Greeks f — or that Abaris, the Hyper- 
borean, was a native of the north of Ireland. J 

By some of these archaeologists it has been imagined that the Irish were early ac- 
quainted with the counterpoint,§ and they endeavor to support this conjecture by a well- 
known passage in Giraldus, where he dilates with such elaborate praise upon the beauties 
■of our national minstrelsy. But the terms of this eulogy are too vague, too deficient in 
teulmical accuracy, to prove that even Oiraldus himself knew anything of the artifice of 
counterpoint. There are many expressions in the Greek and Latin writers which might 
be cited with much more plausibility to prove that they understood the arrangement of 
music in parts; || yet I believe it is conceded in general by the learned, that however grand 
and pathetic the melody of the ancients may have been, it was reserved for the ingenuity 
of modern science to transmit the "light of song" through the variegating prism of 
harmony. 

Indeed the irregular scale of the early Irish (in which, as in the music of Scotland, 
the interval of the fourth was wanting) ** must have furnished but wild and refractory 
subjects to the harmonist. It was only when the invention of Guido began to be known, 
and the powers of the harp f f were enlarged by additional strings, that our melodies took 
the sweet character which interests us at present; and while the Scotch persevered in the 
old mutilation of the scale,tJ our music became gradually more amenable to the laws of 
harmony and counterpoint. 

In profiting, however, by the improvements of the moderns, our style still kept its 

* See advertisement to the Transactions of the Gaelic Society Dublin. 

t O'Halloran, vol. i., parti., chap. vi. 

tld. ib., chap. vii. 

§ It is also supposed, but with as little proof, that they understood the diesis, or enharmonic interval. The Greeks seem 
to have formed their ears to thisdelicate gradation of sound ; and, whatever difficulties or objections may lie in the way of 
its practical use, we must agree with Mersenne. {Pre} tales de /" Ha/rmonie, quest. 7,) that the theory of music would be im- 
perfect without it; and, even in practice, as Tosi, among others, very justly remarks, (Observations on Florid Song,chap.i. , 
§ 16,) there is no good performer on the violin who docs not make a sensible difference between D sharp and E flat, though, 
from the imperfection of the instrument, they are the same uotes upon the piano-forte. The effect of modulation by en- 
harmonic transitions is also very striking and beautiful. 

Il The words iromiAta and eTepotpama, in a passage of Plato, and some expressions of Cicero, in fragment, lib. ii., De 
Jlepubl., induced the Abbe Fraguier to maintain that the ancients had a knowledge of counterpoint. M. Burette, however, 
has answered him, I think, satisfactorily, (" Examen d'un Passage de Platon," in the third volume of Histoire de P Acad.) 
M. Huet is of opinion (Posies Lfirceses) that what Cicero says of the music of the spheres, in his dream of Scipio, is suffic- 
ient to prove an acquaintance with harmony ; but one of the strongest passages which I recollect in favor of the supposi- 
tion occurs in the Treatise, attributed to Aristotle, nepi Ko<rp.oi>— Mouo-utt; Se ojei; «/*« ««. pVpeis, k. t. A. 

** Another lawless peculiarity of our music is the frequency of what composers call consecutive fifths; but this is au ir- 
regularity which can hardly be avoided by persons not very conversant with the rules of composition ; indeed, if I may 
venture to cite my own wild attempts in this way, it is a fault which I find myself continually committing, and which has 
sometimes appeared so pleasing to my ear that I have surrendered it to the critic with considerable reluctance. May there 
not be a little pedantry iir adhering too rigidly to this rule? I have been told that there are instances in Haydn of an un- 
disguised succession of fifths ; and Mr. Shield, in his Introduction to Harmony, seems to intimate that Handel has been 
sometimes guilty of the same irregularity. 

tr A singular oversight occurs in an Essay on the Irish Harp by Mr. IVaufoni. which is inserted in the Appendix to 
Walker's Historical Memoirs. lL The Irish, 11 says he, "according to Bromton, in the reign of Henry II., had two kinds 
of harps, ' Hibernici tamen in duobusmusici generis instruments, qua m vis priecipitetn et velocem, suavein tamen et jucun- 
dam, 1 the one greatly I 'old and quick, the other soft and pleasing." How a man of Mr. Beaufonl's learning could so mistake 
the meaning and mutilate the grammatical construction of this extract is unaccountable. The following is the passage as 
I find it entire in Bromton, and it requires but little Latin to perceive the injustice which has been done to the words of the 
old chronicler :—" Et cunt Scotia, hujus terra 1 (ilia, utatnr lyra, t ympano et choro, ac Wallia cithara, tubis et chora Hiber- 
nici tamen in duobus nmsiei generis iust rumentis. qeumcis )>ra:cipitcm et relneein, snavein tam< n et jitcundam, crispatis 
modulis et intricatis tiolulis, eff.civ.nt harmonium," (Hist. Anglic. Script., p. 1075.) I should not have thought this error 
worth remarking, but that the compiler of the Dissertation on the Harp, prefixed to Mr. Bunting's last work, has adopted 
it implicitly. 

it The Scotch lay claim to some of our best airs, but i 
ours. They had formerly the same passion for robbing u 
•called "The Saint-stealer." 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOOEE. 



originality sacred from their refinements; and though Carolan bad frequent opportunities 
of hearing the works of Geminiani and other masters, we but rarely find him sacrificing 
his native simplicity to the ambition of their ornaments, or affectation of their science. 
In that curious composition, indeed, called his Concerto, it is evident that he labored to 
imitate Corelli; and this union of manners so very dissimilar produces the same kind of 
uneasy sensation which is felt at a mixture of different styles of architecture. In general,, 
however, the artless flow of our music has preserved itself free from all tinge of foreign- 
innovation,*? and the chief corruptions of which we have to complain arise from the un- 
skilful performance of our own itinerant musicians, from whom, too frequently, the airs are 
noted down, encumbered by their tasteless decorations, and responsible for all their ignorant 
anomalies. Though it be sometimes impossible to trace the original strain, yet in most 
of them, "auri per ramos aura refulget/'f the pare gold of the melody shines through the 
ungraceful foliage which surrounds it; and the most delicate and difficult duty of a com- 
piler is to endeavor, as much as possible, by retrenching these inelegant superfluities, and 
collating the various methods of playing or singing each air, to restore the regularity of 
its form, and the chaste simplicity of its character. 

I must again observe that, in doubting the antiquity of our music, my skepticism 
extends but to those polished specimens of the art which it is difficult to conceive anterior 
to the dawn of modern improvement; and that I would by no means invalidate the claims 
of Ireland to as early a rank in the annals of minstrelsy as the most zealous antiquary may 
be inclined to allow her. In addition, indeed, to the power which music must always have 
possessed over the minds of a people so ardent and susceptible, the stimulus of persecution 
was not wanting to quicken our taste into enthusiasm; the charms of song were ennobled 
with the glories of martyrdom, and the acts against minstrels in the reigns of Henry VIII. 
and Elizabeth were as successful, I doubt not, in making my countrymen musicians as the 
penal laws have been in keeping them Catholics. 

With respect to the verses which I have written for these melodies, as they are in- 
tended rather to be sung than read, I can answer for their sound with somewhat more 
confidence than their sense; yet it would be affectation to deny that I have given much 
attention to the task, and that it is not through want of zeal or industry if I unfortunately 
disgrace the sweet airs of my country by poetry altogether unworthy of their taste, their 
energy, and their tenderness. 

Though the humble nature of my contributions to this work may exempt them from 
the rigors of literary criticism, it was not to be expected that those touches of political 
feeling, those tones of national complaint, in which the poetry sometimes sympathizes with 
the music, would be suffered to pass without censure or alarm. It has been accordingly 
said that the tendency of this publication is mischievous, % and that I have chosen these airs 
but as a vehicle of dangerous politics — as fair and precious vessels (to borrow an image of 
St. Augustine) from which the wine of error might be administered. To those who 
identify nationality with treason, and who see in every effort for Ireland a system of hos- 
tility toward England — to those too, who, nursed in the gloom of prejudice, are alarmed 
by the faintest gleam of liberality that threatens to disturb their darkness, like that. 

* Among other false refinements of the art, our music (with the exception, perhaps, of the air called " Mamma, Ma7iima," 
and one or two more of the same ludicrous description) has avoided that puerile mimicry of natural noises, motions, &c, 
which disgraces so often the works of even the great Handel himself. D'Alembert ought to have had better taste than to 
become the patron of this imitative affectation. (Discours Preliminaire de V Encyclopedic.) The reader may find some 
good remarks on the subject in Avison upon Musical Expression ; a work which, though under the name of Avison, was. 
written, it is said, by Dr. Brown. 

t Virgil, Mneid, lib. 6, v. 204. ■ 

t See Letters, under the signatures of " TimaBus," &c, in the Morning Post, Pilot, and other papers. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Demophon of old who, when the sun shone upon him shivered ! * — to such men I shall not 
deign to apologize for the warmth of any political sentiment which may occur in the course 
of these pages. But as there are many among the more wise and tolerant who, with feel- 
ing enough to mourn over the wrongs of their country, and sense enough to perceive all 
the danger of not redressing them, may yet think that allusions in the least degree bold 
or inflammatory should be avoided in a publication of this popular description — I beg of 
these respected persons to believe that there is no one who deprecates more sincerely than 
I do any appeal to the passions of an ignorant and angry multitude; but that it is not 
through that gross and inflammable region of society a work of this nature could ever have 
been intended to circulate. It looks much higher for its audience and readers — it is found 
upon the piano-fortes of the rich and the educated — of those who can afford to have their 
national zeal a little stimulated without exciting much dread of the excesses into which it 
may hurry them; and of many whose nerves may be now and then alarmed with advan- 
tage, as much more is to be gained by their fears than could ever be expected from their 
justice. 

Having thus adverted to the principal objection which has been hitherto made to the 
poetical part of this work, allow me to add a few words in defence of my ingenious 
coadjutor, Sir John Stevenson, who has been accused of having spoiled the simplicity of 
the airs by the chromatic richness of his symphonies and the elaborate variety of his har- 
monies. We might cite the example of the admirable Haydn, who has sported through 
all the mazes of musical science in his arrangement of the simplest Scottish melodies; but 
it appears to me that Sir John Stevenson has brought a national feeling to this task, which 
it would be in vain to expect from a foreigner, however tasteful or judicious. Through 
many of his own compositions we trace a vein of Irish sentiment, which points him out as 
peculiarly suited to catch the spirit of his country's music: and, far from agreeing with 
those critics who think that his symphonies have nothing kindred with the airs which they 
introduce, I would say that, in general, they resemble those illuminated initials of old 
manuscripts which are of the same character with the writing which follows, though more 
highly colored and more curiously ornamented. 

In those airs which are arranged for voices, his skill has particularly distinguished 
itself, and, though it cannot be denied that a single melody most naturally expresses the 
language of feeling and passion, yet often, when a favorite strain has been dismissed as 
having lost its charm of novelty for the ear, it returns in a harmonized shape with new 
claims upon our interest and attention; and to those who study the delicate artifices of 
composition, the construction of the inner parts of these pieces must afford, I think, con- 
siderable satisfaction. Every voice has an air to itself, a flowing succession of notes, 
which might be heard with pleasure independent of the rest, so artfully has the harmonist 
(if J may thus express it) gavelled the melody, distributing an equal portion of its sweet- 
ness to every part. 

* -'This emblem of modern bigots was head-butler (rpaire £o:roios) to Alexander the Great."— Sext. Empir. Pyrrh. 
Hypotk., lib. i. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



GO WHERE GLOEY WAITS THEE. 
Go where glory waits thee, 
But while fame elates thee, 

Oh! still remember me. 
When the praise thou meetest 
To thine ear is sweetest, 

Oh! then remember me. 
Other arms may press thee, 
Dearer friends caress thee, 
All the joys that bless thee, 

Sweeter far may be; 
But when friends are nearest, 
And when joys are dearest, 

Oh! then remember me. 

When at eye thou rovest 
By the star thou lovest, 

Oh! then remember me. 
Think, when home returning, 
Bright we've seen it burning, 

Oh! thus remember me. 
Oft as summer closes, 
On its lingering roses, 

Once so loved by thee, 
Think of her who wove them, 
Her who made thee love them, 

Oh! then remember me. 

When, around thee dying, 
Autumn leaves are lying, 

Oh! then remember me. 
And, at night, when gazing 
On the gay hearth blazing, 

Oh! still remember me, 
Then should music, stealing 
All the soul of feeling, 
To thy heart appealing, 

Draw one tear from thee; 
Then let memory bring thee 
Strains I used to sing thee — 

Oh! then remember me. 



WAR SONG. 

REMEMBER THE GLORIES OP BRIEN THE BRAVE. 1 

Remember the glories of Brien the Brave. 

Though the days of the hero are o'er; 
Though lost to Mononia/ and cold in the 
grave, 
He returns to Kinkora 3 no more! 
That star of the field, which so often has 
pour'd 
Its beam on the battle, is set; 
But enough of its glory remains on each 
sword 
To light us to glory yet! 

Mononia! when nature embellish'd the tint 
Of thy fields and thy mountains so fair, 

Did she ever intend that a tyrant should 
print 
The footstep of slavery there ? 

No, freedom! whose smile we shall never 



Go, tell our invaders, the Danes, 

'Tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy 
shrine, 
Than to sleep but a moment in chains! 

Forget not our wounded companions who 
stood ' 
In the day of distress by our side; 



1 Brien Borombe, the great monarch of Ireland, who was 
killed at the battle of Clontarf, in the beginning of the 
eleventh century, after having defeated the Danes in twenty- 
five engagements. 

2 Munster. 3 The palace of Brien. 

4 This alludes to an interesting circumstance related of the 
Dalgais, the favorite troops of Brien, when they were inter- 
rupted in their return from the battle of Clontarf by Fitzpat- 
rick,Prince of Ossory . The wounded men entreated that they 
might be allowed to fight with the rest.— -"Let stakes" they 
said, "be stuck in the ground, and suffer each of us, tied to 
and supported by one of these stakes, to be placed in hisrank 
by the side of a sound man." "Between seven and eight hun- 
dred wounded men," adds O'Halloran, pale, emaciated, and 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



While the moss of the valley grew red with 
their blood, 
They stirr'd not, but conquer'd and died ! 
The sun that now blesses our arms with his 
light, - 
Saw them fall upon Ossory's plain ! 
Oh let him not blush, when he leaves us to- 
night, 
To find that they fell there in vain ! 



ERIN ! THE TEAR AND THE SMILE 
IN THINE EYES. 

Erin ! the tear and the smile in thine eyes 
Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy 
skies ! 
Shining through sorrow's stream, 
Saddening through pleasure's beam, 
Thy sons, with doubtful gleam, 
Weep while they rise ! 

Erin ! thy silent tear never shall cease, 
Erin ! thy languid smile ne'er shall increase, 

Till, like the rainbow's light, 

Thy various tints unite, 

And form, in Heaven's sight, 
One arch of peace ! 



OH BREATHE NOT HIS NAME. 

Oh breathe not bis name, let it sleep in the 

shade, 
Where cold and unhonor'd his relics are laid ; 
Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we 

shed, 
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er 

his head ! 

But the night-dew that falls, though in 

silence it weeps, 
Shall brighten with verdure the grave where 

he sleeps, 



•npported in this manner, appeared mixed with the foremost 
of the troops— never was Bach another sight exhibited."— 
BUtor\ of Inland, book ill., chap. 1 



And the tear that we shed, though in secret 

it rolls, 
Shall long keep his memory green in our 

soulfl. 



WHEN HE WHO ADORES 

When he who adores thee has left but the 
name 
Of his fault and his sorrows behind, 
Oh say wilt thou weep, when they darken 
the fame 
Of a life that for thee was resign'd ? 
Yes, weep, and however my foes may con- 
demn, 
Thy tears shall efface their decree ; 
For Heaven can witness, though guilty to 
them, 
I have been but too faithful to thee ! 

With thee were the dreams of my earliest 
love; 
Every thought of my reason was thine : 
In my last-humble prayer to the Spirit above, 

Thy name shall be mingled with mine ! 
Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who 
shall live 
The days of thy glory to see; 
But the next dearest blessing that Heaven 
can give 
Is the pride of thus dying for thee J 



THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH 
TARA'S HALLS. 

The harp that once through Tara's halls 

The soul of music shed, 
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls 

As if that soul were fled. 
So sleeps the pride of former days, 

So glory's thrill is o'er, 
And hearts that once beat high for praise, 

Now feel that pulse no more ! 

No more to chiefs and ladies bright 

The harp of Tara swells ; 
The chord alone that breaks at night, 

Its tale of ruin tells. 




IfflSMttJl - u _ ' < ~ ' BiMiL S., 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, 

The only throb she gives 
Is when some heart indignant breaks, 

To show that still she lives. 



OH THINK NOT MY SPIRITS ARE 
ALWAYS AS LIGHT. 

Oh think not my spirits are always as light 
And as free from a pang as they seem to 
you now; 
Nor expect that the heart-beaming smile of 
to-night 
Will return with to-morrow to brighten 
my brow. 
No, life is a waste of wearisome hours 

Which seldom the rose of enjoyment 
adorns ; 
And the heart that is soonest awake to the 
flowers 
Is always the first to be touch'd by the 
thorns ! 
But send round the bowl, and be happy a 
while ; 
May we never meet worse in our pilgrim- 
age here 
Than the tear that enjoyment can gild with 
a smile, 
And the smile that compassion can turn to 
a tear 1 

The thread of our life would be dark, Heaven 
knows ! 
If it were not with friendship and love 
intertwined ; 
And I care not how soon I may sink to 
repose, 
When these blessings shall cease to be 
dear to my mind ! 
But they who have loved the fondest, the 
purest, 
Too often have wept o'er the dream they 
believed ; 
And the heart that has slumber'd in friend- 
ship securest, 
Is happy indeed, if 'twas never deceived. 
But send round the bowl, while a relic of 
truth 



Is in man or in woman, this prayer shall 

be mine — 
That the sunshine of love may illumine out 

youth, 
And the moonlight of friendship console 

our decline. 



FLY NOT YET. 

Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour 
When pleasure, like the midnight flower 
That scorns the eye of vulgar light, 
Begins to bloom for sons of night, 

And maids who love the moon ! 
'Twas but to bless these hours of shade 
That beauty and the moon were made ; 
'Tis then their soft attractions glowing 
Set the tides and goblets flowing. 

Oh ! stay, — Oh ! stay, — 
Joy so seldom weaves a chain 
Like this to-night, that oh ! 'tis pain 

To break its link so soon. 

Fly not yet, the fount that play'd 

In times of old through Ammon's shade,* 

Though icy cold by day it ran, 

Yet still, like souls of mirth, began 

To burn when night was near; 
And thus should woman's heart and looks 
At noon be cold as winter brooks, 
Nor kindle till the night, returning, 
Brings their genial hour for burning. 

Oh! stay,— Oh! stay,— 
When did morning evvr break, 
And find such beaming eyes awake 

As those that sparkle here ! 



THOUGH THE LAST GLIMPSE OF 
ERIN WITH SORROW I SEE. 

Though the last glimpse of Erin with sor- 
row I see, 
Yet wherever thou art shall seem Erin to me ;, 
In exile thy bosom shall still be my home, 
And thine eyes make my climate wherever 



Solie Fons, near the Temple of 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



To the gloom of some desert or cold rocky- 
shore, 

Where the eye of the stranger can haunt us 
no more, 

I will fly with my Coulin, and think the 
rough wind 

Less rude than the foes we leave frowning 
behind. 

And I'll gaze on thy gold hair, as graceful 

it wreathes, 
And hang o'er thy soft harp, as wildly it 

breathes ; 
Nor dread that the cold-hearted Saxon will 

tear 
One chord from that harp, or one lock from 

that hair. 1 



THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.' 

There is not in the wide world a valley so 

sweet 
As that vale in whose bosom the bright 

waters meet !* 
Oh ! the last rays of feeling and life must 

depart 
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from 

my heart. 

Tet it was not that nature had shed o'er the 

scene 
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; 
Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill, 
Oh ! no — it was something more exquisite 

still. 



1 In the twenty-eighth year of the reign of Henry VHI., 
in Act was made respecting the habits, and dress in general, 
of the Irish, whereby all persons were restrained from being 
Bhorn or shaven above the ears, or from wearing glibbes or 
cotilins (long locks) on their heads, or hair on their upper lip, 
called aommeal. On this occasion a song was written by one 
of our bards, In which an Irish virgin is made to give the pre- 
ference to her dear Coulin (or the youth with the flowing 
Jocks) 10 all strangers, (by which the English were meant,) or 
those who wore their habits. Of this song the air alone has 
readied ns, and is universally admired.— Walker's Historical 
Memoirs of Irish Bards, p. 134. Mr. Walker informs us also 
«hat, about the same period, there were some harsh measures 
tak'n against the Irish minstrels. 

3 " The Meeting of the Waters" forms a part of that beau- 
tiful scenery which lies between Rathdrum and Arklow, in 
\uc county of Wicklow, and these lines were suggested by a 
Tisit to this romantic spot in the Bummer of the year 1807. 

* The rivers Avon and Avoco. 



'Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, 

were near, 
Who made every dear scene of enchantment 

more dear, 
And who felt how the best charms of nature 

improve, 
When we see them reflected from looks that 

we love. 

Sweet vale of Avoca ! how calm could I rest 
In thy bosom of shade with the friends I love 

best, 
Where the storms that we feel in this cold 

world should cease, 
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled 

in peace ! 



RICH AND RARE WERE THE GEMS 
SHE WORE.* 

Rich and rare were the gems she wore, 
And a bright gold ring on her wand she 

bore; 
But oh ! her beauty was far beyond 
Her sparkling gems or snow-white wand. 

" Lady ! dost thou not fear to stray, 
So lone and lovely, through this bleak way? 
Are Erin's sons so good or so cold, 
As not to be tempted by woman or gold 1" 
" Sir Knight ! I feel not the least alarm, 
No son of Erin will offer me harm — 
Forthougb they love women and golden store, 
Sir Knight ! they love honor and virtue 
more !" 

On she went, and her maiden smile 
In safety lighted her round the Green Isle. 
And blest forever is she who relied 
Upon Erin's honor, and Erin's pride ! 

4 This ballad is founded upon the following anccdott : — 
"The people were inspired with such a spirit of honor, virtue, 
and religion, by the great example of Brien, and by his ex- 
cellent administration, that, as a proof of it. we are informed 
that a young lady of great beauty, adorned with jewels and a 
costly dress, unuertook a journey alone, from one end of the 
kingdom to the other, with a wand only in her baud, at the 
top of which was a ring of exceeding great value ; and euch 
an impression had the laws and government of thiB monarch 
made on the minds of all the people, that no attempt wa« 
made upon her honor, nor was she robbed of her clothes o* 
jewels."— Warner's History of Ireland, vol. .., book x. 




' 






POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



AS A BEAM O'ER THE FACE OF THE 
WATERS MAY GLOW. 

As a beam o'er the face of the waters may 

glow, 
While the tide runs in darkness and coldness 

below, 
So the cheek may be tinged with a warm 

sunny smile, 
Though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly 

the while. 

One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that 

throws 
Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our 

woes, 
To which life nothing darker or brighter can 

bring, 
For which joy has no balm and affliction no 

sting ! 

Oh ! this thought in the midst of enjoyment 

will stay, 
Like a dead leafless branch in the summer's 

bright ray ; 
The beams of the warm sun play round it in 

vain, 
It may smile in his light, but it blooms not 

again 1 



ST. SENANUS AND THE LADY. 

ST. SENANUS. 

" Oh ! haste and leave this sacred isle, 
Unholy bark, ere morning smile : 
lor on thy deck, though dark it be, 

A female form I see ; 
And I have sworn this sainted sod 
Shall ne'er by woman's feet be trod !" 

THE LADT. 

" O father, send not hence my bark, 
Through wintry winds and billows dark j 
I come with humble heart to share 

Thy morn and evening prayer; 
Nor mine the feet, O holy saint, 
The brightness of thy sod to taint." 



The lady's prayer Senanus spurn'd ; 
The winds blew fresh, the bark return'd. 
But legends hint, that had the maid 

Till morning's light delay'd, 
And given the saint one rosy smile, 
She ne'er had left his lonely isle. 



HOW DEAR TO ME THE HOUR. 

How dear to me the hour when daylight dies, 
And sunbeams melt along the silent sea, 

For then sweet dreams of other days arise, 
And memory breathes her vesper sigh to 
thee. 

And as I watch the line of light that plays 
Along the smooth wave toward the burn- 
ing west, 
I long to tread that golden path of rays, 
And think 'twould lead to some bright ifllf 
of rest ! 



TAKE BACK THE VIRGIN PAGE. 

WRITTEN ON RETURNING A BLANK BOOK. 

Take back the virgin page, 

White and unwritten still ; 
Some hand more calm and sage 

The leaf must fill. 
Thoughts come, as pure as light, 

Pure as even you require ; 
But oh ! each word I write, 

Love turns to fire. 

Yet let me keep the book ; 

Oft shall my heart renew, 
When on its leaves I look, 

Dear thoughts of you ! 
Like you, 'tis fair and bright ; 

Like you, too bright and fair 
To let wild passion write 

One wrong wish there I 

Haply, when from those eyes 
Far, far away I roam, 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Should calmer thoughts arise 

Toward you and home ; 
Fancy may trace some line, 

"Worthy those eyes to meet, 
Thoughts that not hum, but shine, 

Pure, calm, and sweet ! 

And as the records are 

Which wandering seamen keep, 
Led by their hidden star 

Through winter's deep ; 
So may the words I write 

Tell through what storms I stray, 
You still the unseen light 

Guiding my way ! 



THE LEGACY. 

When in death I shall calm recline, 
Oh bear my heart to my mistress dear; 

Tell her it lived upon smiles and wine 
Of the brightest hue, while it linger'd here. 

Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow 
To sully a heart so brilliant and light ; 

But balmy drops of the red grape borrow, 
To bathe the relic from morn till night. 

When the light of my song is o'er, 
Then take my harp to your ancient hall ; 

Hang it up at that friendly door, 
Where weary travellers love to call' 

Then if some bard who roams forsaken, 
Revive its soft note in passing along, 

Oh ! let one thought of its master waken 
Tour warmest smile for the child of song. 

Keep this cup, which is now o'erflowing, 
To grace your revel, when I'm at rest ; 

Never, oh 1 never its balm bestowing 
On lips that beauty hath seldom blest ! 

But when some warm devoted lover 
To her he adores shall bathe its brim, 

Oh I then my spirit around shall hover, 
And hallow each drop that foams for him. 



i " In every house wan one or two harps, free to all travel- 
len, who were the more caressed the more they excelled in 



HOW OFT HAS THE BENSHEE CRIED 

How oft has the Benshee cried ! 
How oft has death untied 
Bright links that glory wove, 
Sweet bonds entwined by love ! 

Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth ! 

Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth ! 
Long may the fair and brave 
Sigh o'er the hero's grave. 

We're fallen upon gloomy days,* 

Star after star decays, 

Every bright name that shed 

Light o'er the land is fled. 
Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth 
Lost joy, or hope that ne'er returneth, 

But brightly flows the tear 

Wept o'er the hero's bier ! 

Oh ! quench'd are our beacon-lights— 
Thou of the hundred fights ! s 
Thou on whose burning tongue 
Truth, peace, and freedom hung ! 4 

Both mute, but long as valor shineth, 

Or mercy's soul at war repineth, 
So long shall Erin's pride 
Tell how they lived and died. 



WE MAT ROAM THROUGH THIS 
WORLD. 

We may roam through this world like a 
child at a feast 
Who but sips of a sweet, and then flies to 
the rest ; 
And when pleasure begins to grow dull in 
the east, 
We may order our wings, and be off to 
the west : 



3 1 have endeavored here, without losing that Irish character 
which it is my object to preserve throughout this work, to al- 
lude to the sad and ominous fatality by which England has 
been deprived of so many great and good men. at a moment 
when she most requires all the aids of talent asd integrity. 

3 This designation, which has been applied to Lord Nelson 
before, is the title given to a celebrated Irish hero, in a poem 
by O'Gnive, the bard of O'Neil, which is quoted in the Philo- 
sophical Survey of the South of Ireland, page 433 :— " Con, a\ 
the hundred fights, sleep in thy grass-grown tomb, and ap 
braid not our defeats with thy victories I" 

4 Fox—'* Ultimus Romanorum I" 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



But if hearts that feel and eyes that smile 

Are the dearest gifts that Heaven supplies, 
We never need leave our own Greeu Isle, 

For sensitive hearts and for sun-bnght eyes. 
Then remember, wherever your goblet is 
crown'd, 
Through this world, whether eastward or 
westward you roam, 
When a cup to the smile of dear woman 
goes round, 
Oh ! remember the smile which adorns her 
at home. 

fn England the garden of beauty is kept 
By a dragon of prudery, placed within call ; 

But so oft this unamiable dragon has slept, 
That the garden's but carelessly watch'd 
after all. 

Oh ! they want the wild sweet-briery fenee 
Which round the flowers of Erin dwells, 

Which warms the touch while winning the 

Nor charms us least when it most repels. 
Then remember, wherever your goblet is 
crown'd, 
Through this world, whether eastward or 
westward you roam, 
When a cup to the smile of dear woman 
goes round, 
Oh ! remember the smile which adorns her 
at home. 

In France, when the heart of a woman sets 
sail 
On the ocean of wedlock its fortune to try, 
Love seldom goes far in a vessel so frail, 
But just pilots her off, and then bids her 
good-bye ! 
While the daughters of Erin keep the boy 

Ever smiling beside his faithful oar, 
Through billows of woe and beams of joy, 
The same as he look'd when he left the 
shore, 
Then remember, wherever your goblet is 
crown'd 
Through this world, whether eastward or 
westward you roam, 
When a cup to the smile of dear woman 
goes round, 
Oh ! remember the smile which adow? \ 
her at home. 



EVELEEN'S BOWER. 

Oh ! weep for the hour 

When to Eveleen's, bower 
The lord of the valley with faise vows came 

The moon hid her light 

From the heavens that night, 
And wept behind her clouds o'er the maiden's 
shame. 

The clouds past soon 

From the chaste cold moon, 
And heaven smiled again with her vestal 
flame; 

But none will see the day 

When the clouds shall pass away 
Which that dark hour left upon Eveleen's 
fame. 

The white snow lay 
On the narrow pathway 
When the lord of the valley crost over the 
moor; 
And many a deep print 
On the white snow's tint 
Show'd the track of his footstep to Eveleen's 
door. 
The next sun's ray 
Soon melted away 
Every trace on the path where the false loi;d 
came; 
But there's a light above 
Which alone can remove 
That stain upon the snow of fair Eveleen's 
fame. 



THE SONG OF FIONNUALA. 1 

Silent, O Moyle ! be the roar of thy water, 
Break not, ye breezes, your chain of repose, 

While, murmuring mournfully, Lir's lonely 
daughter 
Tells to the night-star her tale of woes. 



1 To make thlB Btoty Intelligible in a song wonld require a 
mach gTeater number of verses than any one is authorized to 
inflict upon an audience at once ; the reader must therefore be 
content to learn, in a note, That Fionuuala, the daughter of 
Lir, was, by some supernatural power, transformed iuto a 
pwan, and condemned to wander, for many hundred years, 
o rer certaia lakes and rivers of Ireland till the coming of 
Ihrisiianity, when the first sound of the mass-bell was to b« 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



When shall the swan, her death-note singing, 
Sleep, with wings in darkness furl'd ? 

When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing, 
Call my spirit from this stormy world ? 

Sadly, O Moyle ! to thy winter wave weeping, 

Fate bids me languish long ages away ! 
Yet still in her darkness doth Erin lie sleeping, 

Still doth the pure light its dawning delay ! 
When will that day-star, mildly springing, 

Warm our isle with peace and love ? 
When will heaven, its sweet bell ringing, 

Call my spirit to the fields above ? 



LET ERIN REMEMBER THE DATS 
OF OLD. 

Let Erin remember the days of old, 

Ere her faithless sons betray'd her ; 
When Malachi wore the collar of gold 1 

Which he won from her proud invader ; 
When her kings with standard of green 
unfurl'd 

Led the Red-Branch Knights to danger ;' 
Ere the emerald gem of the western world 

Was set in the crown of a stranger. 

On Lough Neagh's bank as the fisherman 
strays,' 
When the clear cold eve's declining, 






the signal of her release. I fcand this fanciful fiction among 
some manuscript translations troro the Irish, begun under the 
direction of the late Countess of Moira. 

1 "This brought on an encounter beiween Malachi (the mon- 
arch of Ireland in the tenth century) and the Danes, in which 
Malachi defeated two of their champions, whom he encoun- 
tered successively hand to hand, taking a collar of gold from 
the neck of one, and carrying off the sword of the other, as 
trophies of his victory."— Warner's Hist, of Ireland, vol. i., 
book ix. 

8 " Military orders of knights were very early established in 
Ireland. Long before the birth of Christ we ilnd in hereditary 
order of chivalry in Ulster, called Curaidhena dalol/Ae ruadh, 
or the Knights of the Red Branch, from their chief seat in 
Emtinia, adjoining to the palace of the Ulster kin t *s, called 
Teagh na Craiobhe ntadh, or the Academy of the Ked 3t jnch : 
and contiguous to which was a large hospital, founded for the 
sick knights and soldiers, called Bron-bhearg, or the hous> of 
the sorrowful soldier."— Ofllalloran's Introduction, &c, Dvrt 
I., chapter v. 

' It was an old tradition in the tirne of Giraldus, that Lingh 
Neagh had been originally a fountain, by whose sudden over- 
flowing the country was inundated, and a whole region, liku 
the Atlantis of Plato, overwhelmed. He says, that the fisher- 
men, in clear weather, used to point out to strangers the tall 
•eclesiastical towers under fie water. 



He sees the round towers of other days 
In the wave beneath him shining ! 

Thus shall memory often, in dreams sublime. 
Catch a glimpse of the days that are over 

Thus, sighing, look through the waves of time 
For the long-faded glories they cover ! 



COME, SEND ROUND THE WINE. 

Come, send round the wine, and leave point! 
of belief 
To simpleton sages and reasoning fools ; 
This moment's a flower too fair and brief 
To be wither'd and stain'd by the dust of 
the schools. 
Your glass may be purple, and mine may be 
blue, 
But while they are fill'd from the same 
bright bowl, 
The fool who would quarrel for difference of 
hue 
Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er 
the soul. 



Shall I ask the brave soldier, who 
my side 



hts Sf 

In the cause of mankind, if our creeds 
agree ? 
Shall I give up the friend I have valued and 
tried, 
If he kneel not before the same altar with 
me? 
From the heretic girl of my soul shall I fly, 
To seek somewhere else a more orthodox 
kiss? 
No ! perish the hearts and the laws that try 
Truth, valor, or love by a standard like 
this! 



SUBLIME WAS THE WARNING. 

Sublime was the warning which Liberty 

spoke, 
And grand was the moment when Spaniards 

awoke 
Into life and revenge from the conqueroi 's 

chain ! 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



O Liberty ! let not this spirit have rest, 

Till it move, like a breeze, o'er the waves of 
the west — 

Give the light of your look to each sorrow- 
ing spot, 

Nor oh? be the shamrock of Erin forgot, 
While you add to your garland the olive 
of Spain ! 

If the fame of our fathers, bequeath'd with 

their rights, 
Give to country its charm, and to home its 

delights, 
If deceit be a wound, and suspicion a stain, 
Then, ye men of Iberia ! our cause is the same ; 
And oh ! may his tomb want a tear and a 

name, 
Who would ask for a nobler, a holier death, 
Than to turn his last sigh into victory's breath 
For the shamrock of Erin and olive of 



Te Blakes and O'Donnels, whose fathers 

resign'd 
The green hills of their youth among 

strangers to find 
That repose which at home they had sigh'd 

for in vain, 
Breathe a hope that the magical flame which 

you light 
May be felt yet in Erin, as calm and as bright ; 
And forgive even Albion, while blushing she 

draws, 
Like a truant, her sword, in the long-slighted 

cause 
Of the shamrock of Erin and olive of Spain ! 

God prosper the cause ! — oh! it cannot but 
thrive 

While the pulse of one patriot heart is alive 
Its devotion to feel and its rights to main- 
tain ; 

Then how sainted by sorrow its martyrs will 
die! 

The finger of glory shall point where they lie, 

While, far from the footstep of coward or 
slave, 

The young spirit of Freedom shall shelter 
their grave 
Beneath shamrocks of Erin and olives of 



BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE EN- 
DEARING YOUNG CHARMS. 

Believe me, if all those endearing young 
charms, 
Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, 
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in 
my arms, 
Like fairy-gifts fading away ! 
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment 
thou art, 
Let thy loveliness fade as it will, 
And around the dear rain each wish of my 
heart 
Would entwine itself verdantly still. 

It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, 

And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear, 
That the fervor and faith of a soul may be 
known, 
To which time will but make thee more 
dear! 
Oh the heart that has truly loved never foi- 
gets, 
But as truly loves on to the close, 
As the sunflower turns to her god when she 

The same look which she turn'd when ho 
rose 1 



ERIN ! O ERIN ! 

Like the bright lamp that lay on Kildare'a 

holy shrine, 
And burn'd through long ages of darkness 

and storm, 
Is the heart that sorrows have frown'd on in 

vain, 
Whose spirit outlives them, unfading and 

warm ! 
Erin ! O Erin ! thus bright through the tears 
Of a long night of bondage, thy spirit appears 1 

The nations have fallen, and thou still art 

young, 
Thy 6un is but rising when others are set; 
And though slavery's cloud o'er thy morning 

hath hung, 



40 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE 



The full moon of freedom shall beam round 

thee yet. 
Erin ! O Erin ! though long in the shade, 
Thy star will shine out when the proudest 

shall fade ! 

Unchill'd by the rain, and unwaked by the 

wind, 

The lily lies sleeping through winter's 

cold hour, 

Till the hand of spring her dark chain unbind, 

And daylight and liberty bless the young 



Erin 1 O Erin ! thy winter is past, 
And the hope that lived through it shall 
blossom at last ! 



DRINK TO HER. 

Drink to her who long 

Hath waked the poet's sigh ; 
The girl who ga"ve to song 

What gold could never buy. 
Oh ! woman's heart was made 

For minstrel hands alone ! 
By other fingers play'd, 

It yields not half the tone. 
Then here's to her who long 

Hath waked the poet's sigh, 
The girl who gave to song 

What gold could never buy ! 

At beauty's door of glass 

When wealth and wit once stood, 
They ask'd her, " which might pass ?" 

She answer'd, "He who could." 
With golden key wealth thought 

To pass — but 'twould not do : 
While wit a diamond brought 

Which cut his bright way through ! 
Then here's to her who long 

Hath waked the poet's sigh, 
The girl who gave to song 

What gold could never buy ! 

The love that seeks a home 

Where wealth and grandeur shineB, 
Is like the gloomy gnome 

That dwells in dark gold mines. 



But oh ! the poet's love 

Can boast a brighter sphere ; 
Its native home's above, 

Though woman keeps it here ! 
Then drink to her who long 

Hath waked the poet's sigh, 
The girl who gave to song 

What gold could never buy 1 



OH BLAME NOT THE BARD.' 

Oh blame not the bard if he flies to the 
bowers 
Where pleasure lies carelessly smiling at 
fame; 
He was born for much more, and in happier 
hours 
His soul might have burn'd with a holier 
flame. 
The string that now languishes loose o'er 
the lyre, 
Might have bent a bright bow to the war- 
rior's dart,' 
And the lip which now breathes but the song 
of desire, 
Might have pour'd the full tide of a patri- 
ot's heart ! 

But, alas for his country ! — her pride is gone 

by, 

And that spirit is broken which never 
would bend. 
O'er the ruin her children in secret must sigh, 
For 'tis treason to love her, and death to 
defend. 
Unprized are her sons, till they've learn'd to 
betray ; 
Undistinguish'd they live, if they shame 
not their sires ; 



' We may suppose this apolo27 *o nSTe bee 11 tittered by 
one of those wandering bards whom Spencer so severely, and 
perhaps truly, describes in his Slate of Ireland, and whose 
poems, he tells us, " were sprinkled with some pretty flowers 
of their natural device, which gave good grace and comeliness 
unto them, the which it is great pity to see abused to the gra- 
cing of wickedness and vice, which with good usage, would 
serve to adorn and beautify virtue." 

* It is conjectured by Wormius that the name of Ireland is 
derived from Yr, the Runic for a bow, in the use of whicll 
weapon the Irish were once very expert. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



41 



And the torch that would light them through 
dignity's way 
Must be caught from the pile where their 
country expires ! 

Then blame not the bard, if, in pleasure's 
soft dream, 
He should try to forget what he never can 
heal; 
Oh ! give but a hope — let a vista but gleam 
Through the gloom of his country, and 
mark how he'll feel ! 
That instant his heart at her shrine would 
lay down 
Every passion it nursed, every bliss it 
adored, 
While the myrtle, now idly entwined with 
his crown, 
Like the wreath of Harmodius, should 
cover his sword.' 

But though glory be gone, and though hope 

fade away, 
Thy name, loved Erin ! shall live in his 

songs ; 
Not even in the hour when his heart is most 

gay 

Will he lose the remembrance of thee and 

thy wrongs ! 
The stranger shall hear thy lament on his 

plains ; 
The sigh of thy harp shall be sent o'er the 

deep, 
Till thy masters themselves, as they rivet 

thy chains, 
Shall pause at the song of their captive 

and weep ! 



WHILE GAZING ON THE MOON'S 
LIGHT. 

While gazing on the moon's light, 

A moment from her smile I turn'd, 
To look at orbs that more bright 
In lone and distant glory burn'd. 
But too far 
Each proud star 



For me to feel its warming flame — 
Much more dear 
That mild sphere 
Which near our planet smiling came ;* 
Thus, Mary, be but thou my own — 

While brighter eyes unheeded play, 
I'll love those moonlight looks alone, 

Which bless my home and guide my way . 

The day had sunk in dim showers, 

But midnight now, with lustre meek, 
Illumined all the pale flowers, 

Like hope that lights a mourner's cheek. 
I said, (while 
The moon's smile 
Play'd o'er a stream in dimpling bliss,) 
" The moon looks 
On many brooks, 
The brook can see no moon but this :* 
And thus I thought our fortunes run, 

For many a lover looks to thee, 

While oh ! I feel there is but one, 

One Mary in the world for me. 



ILL OMENS. 

When daylight was yet sleeping under the 
billow, 
And stars in the heavens still ling'ring 
shone, 
Young Kitty, all blushing, rose up from her 
pillow, 
The last time she e'er was to press it alone. 
For the youth, whom she treasured her heart 
and her soul in, 
Had promised to link the last tie before 
noon; 
And when once the young heart of a maiden 
is stolen, 
The maiden herself will steal after it soon I 

As she look'd in the glass, which a woman 
ne'er 



* " Of such celestial bodies as are visible, the son excepted, 
the single moon, as despicable as it is in comparison to most 
of the others, is much more beneficial than they all put to- 
gether."— WhlstorCs Theory, &c. 

a This image was suggested by the following thought, 
which occurs somewhere in Sir William Jones's works: 
" The moon tooks upon many night-flowers, the night-flower 
sees but one m ton." 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



for a sly glance or 



Nor ever 
two, 
A butterfly, fresh from the night-flower's 
kisses, 
Flew over the mirror, and shaded her 
view. 
Enraged with the insect for hiding her graces, 
She brush'd him — he fell, alas! never to 
rise — 
"Ah ! such," said the girl, "is the pride of 
our faces, 
For which the soul's innocence too often 
dies !" 

While she stole through the garden where 
heart's-ease was growing, 
She cull'd some, and kiss'd off its night- 
fallen dew; 
And a rose, further on, look'd so tempting 
and glowing, 
That, spite of her haste, she must gather 
it too ; 
But while o'er the roses too carelessly lean- 
ing, 
Her zone flew in two, and her heart's-ease 
•was lost — 
" Ah ! this means," said the girl, (and she 
sigh'd at its meaning,) 
" That love is scarce worth the repose it 
will cost !" 



BEFORE THE BATTLE. 

By the hope within us springing, 

Herald of to-morrow's strife ; 
By that sun whose light is bringing 

Chains or freedom, death or life — 
Oh ! remember, life can be 
No charm for him who lives not free I 

Like the day-star in the wave, 

Sinks a hero to his grave, 
Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears 1 

Bless'd is he o'er whose decline 
The smiles of home may soothing shine, 
And light him down the steep of years : — 
But, oh, how grand they sink to rest 
Who close their eyes on victory's breast ! 



O'er his watch-fire's fading embers 
Now the foeman's cheek turns white, 

While his heart that field remembers 
Where we dimm'd his glory's light ! 

Never let him bind again 

A chain like that we broke from then. 

Hark ! the horn of combat calls — 

Oh, before the evening falls, 
May we pledge that horn in triumph ronnd I 

Many a heart that now beats high, 
In slumber cold at night shall lie, 
Nor waken even at victory's sound : — 
But, oh, how blest that hero's sleep, 
O'er whom a wondering world shall weep ! 



AFTER THE BATTLE. 

Night closed around the conquerov's way, 

And lightning show'd the distant hill, 
Where those who lost that dreadful day, 

Stood few and faint, but fearless still 
The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeai, 

Forever dimm'd, forever crost — 
Oh who shall say what heroes feel, 

When all but life and honor's lost ! 

The last sad hour of freedom's dream 

And valor's task moved slowly by, 
While mute they watch 'd till morning's beam 

Should rise and give them light to die ! 
There is a world where souls are free, 

Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss ; 
Bf death that world's bright opening be, 

Oh ! who would live a slave in this ? 



OH 'TIS SWEET TO THINK. 

Oh 'tis sweet to think that where'er we rove, 
We are sure to find something blissful and 
dear; 
And that, when we're far from the lips we 
love, 



■ "The Irish Coma was not entirely devoted to martia. 
purposes. In the heroic ages our ancestors quaffed meadh 
i do their beverage at this 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



43: 



We have but to make love to the lips -we 
are near! 1 
The heart like a tendril accustom'd to cling, 
Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish 
alone, 
But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing 
It can twine with itself and make closely 
its own. 
Then oh what pleasure, where'er we rove, 
To be doom'd to find something still that 
is dear, 
And to know, when far from the lips we love, 
We have but to make love to the lips we 
are near. 

'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise, 
To make light of the rest, if the rose is not 
there, 
And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes, 
'Twere a pity to limit one's love to a pair. 
Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly 
alike, 
They are both of them bright, but they're 
changeable too, 
And wherever a new beam of beauty can 
strike, 
It will tincture love's plume with a differ- 
ent hue ! 
Then oh what pleasure, where'er we rove, 
To be doom'd to find something still that 
is dear, 
And to know, when far from the lips we love, 
We have but to make love to the lips we 
are near. 



THE IRISH PEASANT TO HIS 
MISTRESS. 

Through grief and through danger thy 
smile hath cheer'd my way 

Till hope seem'd to bud from each thorn 
that round me lay; 



1 I believe It is Marmontel who says, " Quand on rCa pas ee 
gue Von dime, ilfaut aimer ce que Von a." There are so many 
matter-of-fact people who take such jeux dV esprit, as this 
defence of inconstancy to be the actual and genuine senti- 
ments of him who writes them, that they compel one, in self- 
defence, to be as matter-of-fact as themselves, and to remind 
them that Democritus was not the worse physiologist for 
having playfully contended that snow was black, nor Erasmus 
In any degree the less wise for having written an ingenious 
— '— 1 of folly. 



The darker our fortune, the brighter our 

pure love burn'd, 
Till shame into glory, till fear into zeal waa 

turn'd ; 
Oh ! slave as I was, in thy arms my spirit 

felt free, 
And bless'd even the sorrow that made me 

more dear to thee. 

Thy rival was honor'd, while thou wert 

wrong'd and scorn'd, 
Thy crown was of briers, while gold her 

brows adorn'd ; 
She woo'd me to temples, while thou lay'st 

hid in caves, 
Her friends were all masters, while thine, 

alas ! were slaves ; 
Yet, cold in the earth, at thy feet I would 

rather be, 
Than wed what I loved not, or turn one 

thought from thee. 

They slander thee sorely, who say thy vowb 

are frail — 
Hadst thou been a false one, thy cheek had 

look'd less pale ! 
They say too, so long thou hast worn those 

lingering chains, 
That deep in thy heart they have printed 

their servile stains — 
Oh! do not believe them — no chain could 

that soul subdue. 
Where shineth thy spirit, there liberty 

shineth too ! 



ON MUSIC. 

When through life unblest we rove, 

Losing all that made life dear, 
Should some notes we used to love 

In days of boyhood meet our ear, 
Oh ! how welcome breathes the strain ! 

Wakening thoughts that long have slept 
Kindling former smiles again, 

In faded eyes that long have wept I 

Like the gale that sighs along 
Beds of oriental flowers 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Is the grateful breath of song 

That once was heard in happier hours ; 
Fill'd with balm, the gale sighs on, 

Though the flowers have sunk in death ; 
So, when pleasure's dream is gone, 

Its memory lives in music's breath 1 

Music ! — oh ! how faint, how weak, 

Language fades before thy spell ! 
Why should feeling ever speak, 

When thou canst breathe her soul so well ? 
Friendship's balmy words may feign, 

Love's are even more false than they ; 
Oh I 'tis only music's strain 

Can sweetly soothe, and not betray ! 



THE ORIGIN OF THE HARP. 

'Tis believed that this harp which I wake 

now for thee 
Was a siren of old who sung under the sea ; 
And who often at eve through the bright 

billow roved 
To meet on the green shore a youth whom 

she loved. 

But she loved him in vain, for he left her to 
weep, 

And in tears all the night her gold ringlets 
to steep, 

Till Heaven look'd with pity on true-love so 
warm, 

And changed to this soft harp the sea- 
maiden's form ! 

Still her bosom rose fair — still her cheek 

smiled the same — 
While her sea-beauties gracefully curl'd 

round the frame ; 
And her hair, shedding tear-drops from all 

its bright rings, 
Fell over her white arm, to make the gold 

strings ! 

Hence it came that this soft harp so long 

hath been known 
To mingle love's language with sorrow's sad 

tone; 



Till thou didst divide them, and teach the 

fond lay 
To be love when I'm near thee and grief 

when away I 



IT IS NOT THE TEAR AT THIS 
MOMENT SHED. 1 

It is not the tear at this moment shed, 

When the cold turf has just been laid o'er 
him, 
That can tell how beloved was the soul that'f 
fled, 

Or how deep in our hearts we deplore him. 
'Tis the tear, through many a long day wept, 

Through a life, by his loss all shaded ; 
"Tis the sad remembrance fondly kept 

When all lighter griefs have faded ! 

Oh ! thus shall we mourn, and his memory's 
light, 
While it 6hines through our hearts, will 
improve them, 
For worth shall look fairer, and truth more 
bright, 
When we think how he lived but to love 
them! 
And as buried saints the grave perfume 

Where fadeless they've long been lying, 

So our hearts shall borrow a sweet'ning bloom 

From the image he left there in dying I 



LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. 

Oh ! the days are gone when beauty bright 

My heart's chain wove ; 
When my dream of life, from morn till night 
Was love, still love ! 
New hope may bloom, 
And days may come, 
Of milder, calmer beam, 
But there's nothing half so sweet in life 

As love's young dream ! 
Oh ! there's nothing half so sweet in life 
As love's young dream ! 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Though the bard to purer fame may soar, 


Or could we keep the souls we love, 


When wild youth's past ; 


We ne'er had lost thee here, Mary ! 


Though he win the wise, who frown'd before, 


Though many a gifted mind we meet, 


To smile at last ; 


Though fairest forms we see, 


He'll never meet 


To live with them is far less sweet, 


A joy so sweet 


Than to remember thee, Mary 1 


In all his noon of fame, 




As when first he sung to woman's ear 




His soul-felt flame, 




And at every close she blush'd to hear 




The one loved name ! 


THE PRINCE'S DAY. 1 


Oh ! that hallow'd form is ne'er forgot, 


Though dark are our sorrows, to-day we'H 


Which first love traced ; 


forget them, 


Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot 


And smile through our tears, like a sun- 


On memory's waste ! 


beam in showers ; 


'Twas odor fled 


There never were hearts, if our rulers would 


As soon as shed ; 


let them, 


'Twas morning's winged dream ; 


More form'd to be grateful and blessed 


'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again 


than ours ! 


On life's dull stream ! 


But just when the chain 


Oh ! 'twas a light that ne'er can shine again 


Has ceased to pain, 


On life's dull stream ! 


And hope has enwreathed it round with 




flowers, 




There comes a new link 




Our spirit to sink — 






Oh ! the joy that we taste, like the light of 




the poles, 


1 SAW THY FORM IN YOUTHFUL 


Is a flash amid darkness, too brilliant tc 


PRIME. 


stay; 




But though 'twere the last little spark in our 


I saw thy form in youthful prime, 


souls, 


Nor thought that pale decay 


We must light it up now, on our Prince's 


Would steal before the steps of time, 


day. 


And waste its bloom away, Mary ! 




Yet still thy features wore that light 


Contempt on the minion who calls you dis- 


Which fleets not with the breath ; 


loyal ! 


And life ne'er look'd more purely bright 


Though fierce to your foe, to your friends 


Than in thy smile of death, Mary ! 


you are true; 




And the tribute most high to a head that is 


As streams that run o'er golden mines, 


ro^al, 


With modest murmur glide, 


Is love from a heart that loves liberty too. 


Nor seem to know the wealth that shines 


While cowards, who blight 


Within their gentle tide, Mary ! 


Your fame, your right, 


So, veil'd beneath the simple guise, 


Would shrink from the blaze of the battle 


Thy radiant genius shone, 


array, 


And that which charm'd all other eyes 


The standard of green 


Seem'd worthless in thy own, Mary i 


In front would be seen — 


If souls could always dwell above, 
Thou ne'er hadst left that sphere ; 


• This song was written for a fete in honor of the Prince ot 
Wales's birthday, given by my friend Major Bryan, at his aest 
in the county of Kilkenny. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Oh I my life on your faith ! were you sum- 


Oh ! my Nora's gown for me, 


mon'd this minute, 


That floats as wild as mountain breezes, 


You'd cast ever bitter remembrance away, 


Leaving every beauty free 


And show what the arm of old Erin has in it 


To sink or swell, as Heaven pleases ! 


When roused by the foe on her Prince's 


Yes, my Nora Creina ! 


day. 


My simple, graceful Nora Creina ! 




Nature's dress 


He loves the Green Isle, and his love is re- 


Is loveliness — 


corded 


The dress you wear, my Nora Creina ! 


In hearts which have suffer'd too much to 




forget ; 


Lesbia hath a wit refined, 


And hope shall be crown'd and attachment 


But when its points are gleaming round us 


rewarded, 


Who can tell, if they're design'd 


And Erin's gay jubilee shine out yet ! 


To dazzle merely, or to wound us ? 


The gem may be broke 


Pillow'd on my Nora's heart, 


By many a stroke, 


In safer slumber Love reposes — 


But nothing can cloud its native ray ; 


Bed of peace ! whose roughest part 


Each fragment will cast 


Is but the crumpling of the roses. 


A light to the last ! — 


my Nora Creina, dear ! 


And thus, Erin, my country ! though broken 


My mild, my artless Nora Creina ! 


thou art, 


Wit, though bright, 


There's a lustre within thee that ne'er will 


Hath not the light 


decay ; 


That warms your eyes, my Nora Crenia 1 


A spirit that beams through each suffering 




part, 




And now smiles at their pain on the Prince's 




day! 






WEEP ON, WEEP ON. 





Weep on, weep on, your hour is past, 




Your dreams of pride are o'er, 


LESBIA HATH A BEAMING EYE. 


The fatal chain is round you cast, 




And you are men no more ! 


Lesbia hath a beaming eye, 


In vain the hero's heart hath bled ; 


But no one knows for whom it beameth ; 


The sage's tongue hath warn'd in vain \ 


Right and left its arrows fly, 


freedom ! once thy flame hath fled 


But what they aim at no one dreameth ! 


It never lights again ! 


Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon 




My Nora's lid, that seldom rises ; 


Weep on — perhaps, in after days, 


Few its looks, but every one, 


They'll learn to love your name ; 


Like unexpected light, surprises 1 


And many a deed may wake in praise 


my Nora Creina, dear ! 


That long has slept in blame ! 


My gentle, bashful Nora Creina I 
Beauty lies 


And when they tread the ruin'd isle, 


Where rest, at length, the lord and slave, 


In many eyes, 


They'll wond'ring ask how hands so vile 


But love in yours, my Nora Creina 1 


Could conquer hearts so brave ! 


Lesbia wears a robe of gold, 


" 'Twas fate," they'll s:iy, " a wayward fat* 


But all so close the nymph hath laced it, 


Your web of discord wove ; 


Not a charm of beauty's mould 


And while your tyrants joiu'd in hate, 


Presumes to stay where nature placed it ! 


You never joiu'd in love 1 







JESUIT HX£.'. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



But hearts fell off that ought to twine, 
And man profaned what Goa had given, 

Till some were heard to curse ihe shrine 
Where others knelt to Heaven !" 



BY THAT LAKE, WHOSE GLOOMY 
SHORE. 1 

Bv that lake, whose gloomy shore 
Skylark never warbles o'er, 
Where the cliff hangs high and steep, 
Young Saint Kevin stole to sleep. 
•" Here, at least," he calmly said, 
" Woman ne'er shall find my bed." 
Ah ! the good saint little knew 
What that wily sex can do. 

'Twas from Kathleen's eyes he flew, 
Eyes of most unholy blue ! 
See had loved him well and long, 
Wish'd him hers, nor thought it wrong. 
Wheresoe'er the saint would fly, 
Still he heard her light foot nigh ; 
East or west, where'er he turn'd, 
Still her eyes before him burn'd. 

On the bold cliff's bosom cast, 
Tranquil now he sleeps at last ; 
Dreams of heaven, nor thinks that e'er 
Woman's smile can haunt him there. 
But nor earth, nor heaven is free 
From her power, if fond she be ; 
Even now, while calm he sleeps, 
Kathleen o'er him leans and weeps. 

Fearless she had track'd his feet, 
To this rocky, wild retreat ; 
And when morning met his view, 
Her mild glances met it too. 
Ah 1 your saints have cruel hearts ! 
Sternly from his bed he starts, 
And with rude, repulsive shock, 
Hurls her from the beetlinsr rock. 



1 This ballad 1b fonnded npon one of the many stories re- 
nted or Saint Kevin, whose bed in the rock is to be seen at 
Glendalough, a most gloomy and romantic spot in the county 
of Wicklow. 



Glendalough ! thy gloomy wave 
Soon was gentle Kathleen's grave! 
Soon the saint (yet ah ! too late) 
Felt her love, and mourn'd her fate. 
When he said, " Heaven rest her soui J" 
Round the lake like music stole; 
And her ghost was seen to glide, 
Smiling, o'er the fatal tide ! 



SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. 



[This poem refers to the betrothed of Robert Emmet. She 
ervfi rd became the wife of an officer, who took her to Sicily, 
the hope that travel \ 



her grief 
oken heart.] 



great that she died of 

She is far from the land where her young 
hero sleeps, 
And lovers are round her sighing ; 
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and 
weeps, 
For her heart in his grave is lying ! 

She sings the wild songs of her dear native 
plains, 
Every note which he loved awaking ; 
Ah ! little they think who delight in her 
strains, 
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking ! 

He had lived for his love, for his country he 
died, 
They were all that to life had entwined 
him; 
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be 
dried, 
Nor long will his love stay behind him. 

Oh ! make her a grave where the sunbeams 

rest, 

When they promise a glorious morrow ; 

They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from 

the west, 

From her own loved island of sorrow 1 



NAY, TELL ME NOT. 

Nat, tell me not, dear! that the goblet 
drowns 

One charm of feeling, one fond regret ; 
Believe me, a few of thy angry frowns 

Are all I've sunk in its bright wave yet. 



POEMS OF TnOMAS MOORE. 



Ne'er hath a beam 
Been lost in the stream 
That ever was shed from thy form or soul ; 
The balm of thy sighs, 
The spell of thine eyes, 
Still float on the surface, and hallow my 
bowl ! 
Then fancy not, dearest ! that wine can steal 
One blissful dream of the heart from me ! 
Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, 
The bowl but brightens my love for thee ! 

They tell us that love in his fairy bower 

Had two blush-roses of birth divine ; 
He sprinkled the one with a rainbow's 
shower, 
But ba*thed the other with mantling wine. 
Soon did the buds, 
That drank of the floods, 
Distill'd by the rainbow, decline and fade ; 
While those which the tide 
Of ruby had dyed, 
All blush'd into beauty, like thee, sweet 
maid ! 
Then fancy not, dearest ! that wine can steal 
One blissful dream of the heart from me ; 
Like founts that awaken the pilgrim's zeal, 
The bowl but brightens my love for thee. 



AVENGING AND BRIGHT. 

Avenging and bright fall the swift sword of 

Erin 1 

On him who the brave sons of Usna be- 

tray'd ! 

For every fond eye he hath waken'd a tear in, 

A drop from his heart-wounds shall weep 



By the red cloud that hung over Conor's 
dark dwelling," 
When Ulad's" three champions lay sleep- 
ing in gore ; 



> The words of this song were suggested by the very ancient 
Irleh story called " Delrdri ; or The Lamentable Fate of the 
Sons of Usnach." 

• " O Naisi 1 view the clond that I here see in the Bky I I 
■ee over Eman green a chilling clond of blood-tinged red."— 
Dtirdri's Song. 

* Ulster. 



By the billows of war which so often high 
swelling 
Have wafted these heroes to victory'* 
shore ! 

We swear to revenge them ! — no joy shall 
be tasted, 
The harp shall be silent, the maiden unwed, 
Our halls shall be mute, and our fields shall 
lie wasted, 
Till vengeance is wreak'd on the murder- 
er's head ! 

Yes, monarch ! though sweet are our home 
recollections, 
Though sweet are the tears that from 
tenderness fall ; 
Though sweet are our friendships, our hopes, 
and affections, 
Revenge on a tyrant is sweetest of all ! 



LOVE AND THE NOVICE. 

" Here we dwell, in holiest bowers, 

Where angels of light o'er our orisons 
bend; 
Where sighs of devotion and breathings of 
flowers 
To Heaven in mingled odor ascend ! 
Do not disturb our calm, Love ! 
So like is thy form to the cherubs above, 
It well might deceive such hearts as ours." 

Love stood near the Novice, and listen'd, 

And Love is no novice in taking a hint ; 
His laughing blue eyes soon with piety 
glisten'd ; 
His rosy wing turn'd to heaven's own tint. 
" Who would have thought," the urchin 

cries, 
" That Love could so well, so gravely 
disguise 
His wandering wings and wounding eyes ?" 

Love now warms thee, waking and sleeping : 
Young Novice, to him all thy orisons rise ; 
Me tinges the heavenly fount with hit 
weeping, 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Me brightens the censer's flame with his 
sighs. 
Love is the saint enshrined in thy breast, 
And angels themselves would admit 
such a guest, 
If he came to them clothed in piety's vest. 



WHAT THE BEE IS TO THE 
FLOWERET. 

Me. — What the bee is to the floweret, 
When he looks for honey-dew 
Through the leaves that close embower it, 
That, my love, I'll be to you ! 

She. — What the bank with verdure glowing 
Is to waves that wander near, 
Whispering kisses, while they're going, 
That I'll be to you, my dear ! 

She, — But they say the bee's a rover, 

That he'll fly when the sweets are gone; 
And when once the kiss is over, 
Faithless brooks will wander on ! 

Me. — Nay, if flowers will lose their looks, 
If sunny banks will wear away, 
'Tis but right that bees and brooks 
Should sip and kiss them while they 
may. 



THIS LIFE IS ALL CHECKER'D WITH 
PLEASURES AND WOES. 

Tins life is all checkered with pleasures and 
woes, 
That chase one another like waves of the 
deep, 
Each billow, as brightly or darkly it flows, 

Reflecting our eyes as they sparkle or weep. 

So closely our whims on our miseries tread, 

That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can 

be dried ; 

And as fast as the rain-drop of pity is shed, 

The goose-plumage of folly can turn it aside. 



Bat pledge me the cup — if existence would 
cloy 
With hearts ever happy and heads ever 
wise, 
Be ours the light grief that is sister to joy, 
And the short brilliant folly that flasheB 
and dies ! 

When Hylas was sent with his urn to the 
fount, 
Through fields full of sunshine, with heart 
full of play, 
Light rambled the boy over meadow and 
mount, 
And neglected his task for the flowers on 
the way. 1 
Thus some who, like me, should have drawn 
and have tasted 
The fountain that runs by philosophy'* 
shrine, 
Their time with the flowers on the margin- 
have wasted, 
And left their light wus all as empty as* 
mine ! 
But pledge me the goblut, while idlenes« 
weaves 
Her flowerets together ; if wisdom can see 
One bright drop or two that has fallen on 
the leaves 
From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for 
mel 



O THE SHAMROCK ! 

Through Erin's Isle, 

To sport a while, 
As Love and Valor wander'd, 

With Wit, the sprite, 

Whose quiver bright 
A thousand arrows squander'd ; 

Where'er they pass, 

A triple grass" 



> " Proposito florem pnetulit officio."— Property lib. i. eleg. 
20. 

a Saint Patrick is said to have made use of that species of 
the trefoil to which in Ireland we give the name of Sham- 
rock, in explaining the doctrine of the Trinity to the pagan 
Irish. I do not know if there be any other reason for our 
adoption of this plant as a national emblem. Hope, among 
the ancients, was sometimes represented as a beautiful child. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Shoots up, with dew-drops streaming, 
As softly green 
As emerald seen 
Through purest crystal gleaming 1 
O the Shamrock, the green, immortal Sham- 
rock ! 
Chosen leaf 
Of bard and chief, 
Old Erin's native Shamrock ! 

Says Valor, " See, 

They spring for me, 
Those leafy gems of morning !" 

Says Love, " No, no, 

For me they grow, 
.My fragrant path adorning !" 

But Wit perceives 

The triple leaves, 
And cries — " Oh ! do not sever 

A type that blends 

Three godlike friends, 
Love, Valor, Wit, forever !" 
^O the Shamrock, the green, immortal Sham- 
rock! 

Chosen leaf 

Of bard and chief, 
Old Erin's native Shamrock ! 



AT THE MID-HOUR OF NIGHT. 

At the mid-hour of night, when stars are 

weeping, I fly 
To the lone vale we loved when life shone 

warm in thine eye, 
And I think that, if spirits can steal from 

the region of air 
To revisit past scenes of delight, thou wilt 

come to me there, 
And tell me our love is remember'd even in 

the sky 1 

Then I sing the wild song which once 'twas 

rapture to hear, 
When our voices, both mingling, breathed 

like one on the ear ; 



And as Echo far off through the vale my 

sad orison rolls, 
I think, O my love! 'tis thy voice from 

the kingdom of souls* 
Faintly answering still the notes that once 

were so dear. 



ONE BUMPER AT PARTING. 

One bumper at parting ! — though many- 
Have circled the board since we met, 

The fullest, the saddest, of any 
Remains to be crown'd by us yet 

The sweetness that pleasure has in i<. 
Is always so slow to come forth, 

That seldom, alas, till the minute 
It dies, do we know half its worth ! 

But, oh, may our life's happy measure 
Be all of such moments made up ; 

They're born on the bosom of pleasure, 
They die 'midst the tears of the cup. 

As onward we journey, how pleasant 

To pause and inhabit a while 
Those few sunny spots, like the present, 

That 'mid the dull wilderness smile ! 
But Time, like a pitiless master, 

Cries " Onward !" and spurs the gay 
hours, 
And never does Time travel faster 

Than when his way lies among flowers. 
But come, may our life's happy measure 

Be all of such moments made up ; 
They're born on the bosom of pleasure, 

They die 'midst the tears of the cup. 

How brilliant the sun look'd in sinking, 

The waters beneath hirn how bright ! 
Oh ! trust me, the farewell of drinking 

Should be like the farewell of light. 
You saw how he finish'd by darting 

His beam o'er a deep billow's brim — 
So fill up, let's shine at our parting, 

In full liquid glory like him. 



• " There are countries," sayB Montaigne, " where they be- 
lieve the souls of the happy live in all manner of liberty. In 
delightful fields ; and that it is those souls repeat.'ng the word* 
we utter which we call Echo." 




THE MINSTREL BOY. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



51 



And oh ! may our life's happy measure 
Of moments like this he made up ; 

Twas born on the bosom of pleasure, 
It dies 'midst the tears of the cup ! 



TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. 

"Tis the last rose of summer, 

Left blooming alone ; 
All her lovely companions 

Are faded and gone ; 
No flower of her kindred, 

No rosebud is nigh 
To reflect back hw blusheB, 

Or give sigh foi. sigh ! 

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one 1 

To pine on the stem ; 
Since the lovely are sleeping, 

Go, sleep thou with them ; 
Thus kindly I scatter 

Thy leaves o'er the bed. 
Where thy mates of the garden 

Lie scentless and dead. 

So soon may /follow, 

When friendships decay, 
And from love's shining circle 

Thy gems drop away ! 
When true hearts lie wither'd, 

And fond ones are flown, 
Oh ! who would inhabit 

This bleak world alone ? 



THE YOUNG MAY MOON. 

The young May moon is beaming, love, 
The glowworm's lamp is gleaming, love, 

How sweet to rove 

Through Morna's grove, 
While the drowsy world is dreaming, love ! 
Then awake ! — the heavens look bright, my 

dear ! 
Tis never too late for delight, my dear 1 

And the best of all ways 

To lengthen our days 
b to steal a few hours from the night, my 
dear! 



Now all the world is sleeping, love, 

But the sage, his star-watch keeping, love, 

And I, whose star, 

More glorious far, 
Is the eye from that casement peeping, love. 
Then awake ! — till rise of sun, my dear, 
The sage's glass we'll shun, my dear, 

Or, in watching the flight 

Of bodies of light, 
He might happen to take thee for one, my 
dear! 



THE MINSTREL BOY. 

The minstrel boy to the war is gone, 

In the ranks of death you'll find him, 
His father's sword he has girded on, 

And his wild harp slung behind him. 
" Land of song !" said the warrior bard, 

" Though all the world betrays thee, 
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, 

One faithful harp shall praise thee !" 

The minstrel fell ! — but the foeman's chain 

Could not bring his proud soul under ; 
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again, 

For he tore its chords asunder ; 
And said, " No chains shall sully thee, 

Thou soul of love and bravery ! 
Thy songs were made for the pure and free. 

They shall never sound in slavery !" 



THE SONG OF O'RUARK, 

PRINCE OF BREFFNI. 1 

The valley lay smiling before me, 

Where lately I left her behind, 
Yet I trembled, and something hung o'er me, 

That sadden'd the joy of my mind. 



Founded upon an event of most melancholy important* 
Ireland, if, ae we are told by our Irish historians, it gave 
England the first opportunity of enslaving us. The king cl 
Leinster i.ad conceived a violent affection for Dearbhorgil, 
daughter to the king of Meath, though she had been for some 
"me married to O'Ruark, prince of Breffni. They carried on 
private correspondence, and she informed him that O'Ruark 
intended soon to go on a pilgrimage, and conjured him to em- 
brace that opportunity of conveying her from a husband she 
detested. MacMurchad too punctually obeyed the summons, 
and had the lady conveyed to his capital of Ferns. The mon- 
arch Rodrick espoused the cause of O'Ruark, while MacMur- 
chad fled to England, and obtained the assistance of Henry IJ 



I'OEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



I look'd for the lamp which, she tohl me, 
Should shine when her pilgrim return'd, 

But though darkness began to infold me, 
No lamp from the battlements burn'd ! 

I flew to her chamber — 'twas lonely 

As if the loved tenant lay dead ! — 
Ah, would it were death, and death only ! 

But no — the young false one had fled. 
And there hung the lute that could soften 

My very worst pains into bliss, 
While the hand that had waked it so often, 

Now throbb'd to my proud rival's kiss. 

There teas a time, falsest of women ! 

When Breffni's good sword would have 
sought 
That man, through a million of foemen, 

Who dared but to doubt thee in thought ! 
While now — O degenerate daughter 

Of Erin, how fallen is thy fame ! 
And, through ages of bondage and slaughter, 

Thy country shall bleed for thy shame. 

Already the curse is upon her, 

And strangers her valleys profane ; 
They come to divide — to dishonor, 

And tyrants they long will remain ! 
But, onward ! — the green banner rearing, 

Go, flesh every sword to the hilt ; 
On our side is Virtue and Erin ! 

On theirs is the Saxon and Guilt. 



OH ! HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE 
ISLE OF OUR OWN ! 

Oh ! had we some bright little isle of our 

own, 
In a blue summer ocean, far off and alone, 
Where a leaf never dies in the still-blooming 

bowers, 
and the bee banquets on through a whole 
year of flowers ; 
Where the sun loves to pause 

With so fond a delay, 
That the night only draws 
A thin veil o'er the day ; 



Where simply to feel that we bieathe, that 

we live, 
Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can 

give ! 

There, with souls ever ardent, and pure an 

the clime, 
We should love as they loved in the first 

golden time ; 
The glow of the sunshine, the balm of the air, 
Would steal to our hearts, and make all 
summer there ! 
With affection as free 

From decline as the bowers, 
And with hope, like the bee, 
Living always on flowers, 
Our life should resemble a long day of light, 
And our death come on holy and calm as 
the nis;ht ! 



FAREWELL! BUT WHENEVER YOU 
WELCOME THE HOUR. 

Farewell ! but whenever you welcome the 

hour 
That awakens the night-song of mirth in 

your bower, 
Then think of the friend who once welcomed 

it too, 
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with 

you. 
His griefs may return — not a hope may 

remain 
Of the few that have brighteu'd his pathway 

of pain — 
But he ne'er will forget the short vision that 

threw 
Its enchantment around him while ling'ring 

with you ! 

And still on that evening, when pleasure 

fills up 
To the highest top sparkle each heart and 

each cup, 
Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, 
My soul, happy friends ! shall be with you 

that night ; 
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and 

your wiles, 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



And return to me beaming all o'er with your 

smiles ! — 
Too blest, if it tells me that, 'mid the gay 

cheer, 
Some kind voice had murmurd, " I wish he 

were here 1" 

Let fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, 
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot 

destroy; 
And which come, in the night-time of sorrow 

and care, 
To bring back the features that joy used to 

wear. 
Long, long be my heart with such memories 

fill'd ! 
Like the vase in which roses have once been 

distill'd— 
You may break, you may ruin the vase, if 

you will, 
But the scent of the roses will hang round it 

still. 



YOU REMEMBER ELLEN. 1 

You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride, 

How meekly she bless'd her humble lot, 
When the stranger, William, had made her 
his bride, 

And love was the light of their lowly cot. 
Together they toil'd through winds and rains, 

Till William at length, in sadness, said, 
" We must seek our fortune on other plains ;" 

Then, sighing, she left her lowly shed. 

They roam'd a long and a weary way, 

Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease, 
When now, at close of one stormy day, 

They see a proud castle among the trees. 
"To-night," said the youth, "we'll shelter 
there ; 

The wind blows cold, the hour is late:" — 
So he blew the horn with a chieftain's air, 

And the porter bow'd as they pass'd the 
gate. 

" Now, welcome, Lady !" exclaimed the 
youth ; 



" This castle is thine, and these dark woods 
all." 
She believed him wild, but his words were 
truth, • 
For Ellen is Lady of Rosna Hall ! 
And dearly the Lord of Rosna loves 

What William the stranger woo'd and wed ; 
And the light of bliss in these lordly groves 
Is pure as it shone in the lowly shed. 



OH ! DOUBT ME NOT. 

Oh ! doubt me not — the season 

Is o'er when folly made me rove, 
And now the vestal reason 

Shall watch the fire awaked by love. 
Although this heart was early blown, 

And fairest hands disturb'd the tree, 
Thfy only shook some blossoms down, 
Its fruit has all been kept for thee. 
Then doubt me not — the season 

Is o'er when folly made me rove, 
And now the vestal reason 

Shall watch the fire awaked by lova, 

And though my lute no longer 

May sing of passion's ardent spell, 
Oh, trust me, all the stronger 
I feel the bliss I do not tell. 
The bee through many a garden roves, 

And sings his lay of courtship o'er, 
But when he finds the flower he loves 
He settles there, and hums no more. 
Then doubt me not — the season 

Is o'er when folly kept me free, 
And now the vestal reason 

Shall guard the flame awaked by thee. 



I'D MOURN THE HOPES. 

I'd mourn the hopes that leave me, 
If thy smiles had left me too ; 

I'd weep, when friends deceive me, 
If thou wert, like them, untrue. 

But while I've thee before me, 
With heart so warm and eyes so bright, 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



No clouds can linger o'er me, 
That smile turns them all to light ! 

'Tis not in fate to harm me, 

While fate leaves thy love to me; 
'Tis net in joy to charm me, 

Unless joy be shared with thee. 
One minute's dream about thee 

Were worth a long, an endless year 
Of waking bliss without thee, 

My own love, my only dear! 

And though the hope be gone, love, 

That long sparkled o'er our way, 
Oh ! we shall journey on, love, 

More safely without its ray. 
Far better lights shall win me 

Along the path I've yet to roam — 
The mind that burns within me, 

And pure smiles from thee at home. 

Thus, when the lamp that lighted 

The traveller, at first, goes out, 
He feels a while benighted, 

And looks round in fear and doubt. 
But soon, the prospect clearing, 

By cloudless starlight on he treads, 
And thinks no lamp so cheering 

As that light which Heaven sheds. 



COME O'ER THE SEA 

Comb o'er the eea, 

Maiden ! with me, 
Mine thro' sunshine, storm, and snows ! 

Seasons may roll. 

But the true soul 
Burns the same where'er it goes. 
Let fate frown on, so we love and part not ; 
'Tis life where thou art, 'tis death where thou 
art not ! 

Then come o'er the sea, 

Maiden ! with me, 
Come wherever the wild wind blows ; 

Seasons may roll, 

But the true soul 
Burns the same where'er it goes. 



Is not the sea 

Made for th<? free, 
Land for courts and chains alone ? 

Here we are slaves, 

But on the waves 
Love and liberty's all our own ! 
No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us, 
All earth forgot, and all heaven around us ! — 

Then come o'er the sea, 

Maiden ! with me, 
Come wherever the wild wind blows ; 

Seasons may roll, 

But the true soul 
Burns the same where'er it goes. 



HAS SORROW THY YOUNG DAYS 
SHADED? 

Has sorrow thy young days shaded, 

As clouds o'er the morning fleet ? 
Too fast have those young days faded, 

That even in sorrow were sweet ? 
Does time with his cold wing wither 

Each feeling that once was dear ? 
Come, child of misfortune ! come hither, 

I'll weep with thee, tear for tear. 

Has love to that soul so tender, 

Been like our Lagenian mine, 1 
Where sparkles of golden splendor 

All over the surface shine — 
But, if in pursuit we go deeper, 
Allured by the gleam that shone, 
Ah ! false as the dream of the sleeper, 

Like love, the bright ore is gone. 

Has hope, like the bird in the story' 

That flitted from tree to tree 
With the talisman's glittering glory — 

Has hope been that bird to thee ? 
On branch after branch alighting, 

The gem did she still display, 
And when nearest and most inviting, 

Then waft the fair gem away ? 



1 Onr Wicklow gold mines, to which this? verse alades, de- 
serve. I fear, the character here given of them. 

* " The bird, having got its prize, fettled not far off, with 
the talisman in his mouth. The prince drew near it, hoping 
it would drop it ; bat, as he approached, the bird took wing, 
and settled again," &c— Arabian Nights. Story of J 
and the PrincesB of China 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



If thus the sweet hours have fleeted 

When sorrow herself look'd bright : 
If thus the fond hope has cheated, 

That led thee along so light ; 
If thus the unkind world wither 

Each feeling that once was dear; 
Come, child of misfortune ! come hither, 

I'll weep with thee, tear for tear. 



NO, NOT MORE WELCOME. 

No, not more welcome the fairy numbers 

Of music fall on the sleeper's ear, 
When, half-awaking from fearful slumbers, 

He thinks the full choir of heaven is near, 
Than came that voice, when all forsaken, 

This heart long had sleeping lain, 
Nor thought its cold pulse would ever waken 

To such benign, blessed sounds again. 

Sweet voice of comfort ! 'twas like the steal- 
ing 
Of summer wind through some wreathed 
shell- 
Each secret winding, each inmost feeling 

Of all my soul echo'd to its spell ! 
'Twas wbisper'd balm — 'twas sunshine 
spoken ! — 
I'd live years of grief and pain 
To have my long sleep of sorrow broken 
By such benign, blessed sounds again ! 



WHEN FIRST I MET THEE. 

When first I met thee, warm and young, 

There shone such truth about thee, 
And on thy lip such promise hung, 

I did not dare to doubt thee. 
I saw thee change, yet still relied, 
Still clung with hope the fonder, 
And thought, though false to all beside, 
From me thou couldst not wander. 
But go, deceiver ! go, — 

The heart, whose hopes could make it 
Trust one so false, so low, 

Deserves that thou shouldst break it ! 



When every tongue thy follies named, 

I fled the unwelcome story ; 
Or found, in even the faults they blamed, 

Some gleams of future glory. 
I still was true, when nearer friends 

Conspired to wrong, to slight thee ; 
The heart, that now thy falsehood rends, 
Would then have bled to right thee. 
But go, deceiver ! go, — 

Some day, perhaps, thou'lt waken 
From pleasure's dream to know 
The grief of hearts forsaken. 

Even now, though youth its bloom has shed, 

No lights of age adorn thee ; 
The few who loved thee once, have fled, 

And they who flatter, scorn thee. 
Thy midnight cup is pledged to slaves, 

No genial ties enwreath it ; 
The smiling there, like light on graves, 
Has rank cold hearts beneath it ! 
Go — go — though worlds were thine, 

I would not now surrender 
One taintless tear of mine 
For all thy guilty splendor ! 

And days may come, thou false one ! yet, 

When even those ties shall sever ; 
When thou wilt call with vain regret 

On her thou'st lost forever ! 
On her who, in thy fortune's fall, 

With smiles had still received thee, 
And gladly died to prove thee all 
Her fancy first believed thee. 
Go — go — 'tis vain to curse, 

'Tis weakness to upbraid thee, 
Hate cannot wish thee worse 

Than guilt and shame have made thee. 



WHILE HISTORY'S MUSE. 

While history's muse the memorial was 
keeping 

Of all that the dark hand of destiny weaves, 
Beside her the genius of Erin stood weeping, 

For hers was the story that blotted the 



But oh, how the tear in 
bright, 



ler eyelids grew 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORK 



When, after whole pages of sorrow and 
shame, 
She saw history write 
With a pencil of light 
That illumed all the volume, her Wellington's 
name ! 

" Hail, star of my isle !" said the spirit, all 
sparkling 
With beams such as break from her own 
dewy skies ; — 
"Through ages of sorrow, deserted and 
darkling, 
I've watch'd for some glory like thine to 
arise. 
For though heroes I've number'd, unblest 
was their lot, 
And unhallow'd they sleep in the cross- 
ways of fame ! — 
But oh there is not 
One dishonoring blot 
On the wreath that encircles my Wellington's 
name ! 

And still the last crown of thy toils is re- 
maining, 
The grandest, the purest even thou hast 
yet known ; 
Though proud was thy task, other nations 
unchaining, 
Far prouder to heal the deep wounds of 
thy own. 
At the foot of that throne, for whose weal 
thou hast stood, 
Go, plead for the land that first cradled 
thy fame — 
And bright o'er the flood 
Of her tears and her blood 
Let the rainbow of hope be her Wellington's 
name !" 



THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING. 

The time I've lost in wooing, 
In watching and pursuing 

The light that lies 

In woman's eyes, 
Has been my heart's undoing. 



Though wisdom oft has taught me, 
I scorn the lore that bought me, 

My only books 

Were woman's looks, 
And folly's all they've taught me. 

Her smile when beauty granted, 
I hung with gaze enchanted, 

Like him, the sprite, 1 

Whom maids by night 
Oft meet in glen that's haunted. 
Like him, too, beauty won me, 
But while her eyes were on me, 

If once their ray 

Was turn'd away, 
Oh ! winds could not outrun me, 

And are those follies going ! 
And is my proud heart growing 

Too cold or wise 

For brilliant eyes 
Again to set it glowing ? 
No — vain, alas ! the endeavor 
From bonds so sweet to sever ; — 

Poor wisdom's chance 

Against a glance 
Is now as weak as ever ! 



WHERE'S THE SLAVE. 

Oh ! where's the slave so lowly, 
Condemn'd to chains unholy, 

Who, could he burst 

His bonds at first, 
Would pine beneath them slowly? 
What soul, whose wrongs degrade it, 
Would wait till time decay'd it, 

When thus its wing 

At once may spring 
To the throne of Him who made it ? 
Farewell, Erin! — farewell all 
Who live to weep our fall ! 

Less dear the laurel growing, 
Alive, untouch'd, and blowing:, 



1 This alludes to a kind of Irish fairy, which is to be met 
with, they say, in the fields at dusk. As long as yon keep 
your eyes upon him. he is fixed and in your power ; but the 
moment you look away (and he is ingenious in furnishing some 
Inducement) he vanishes. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



57 



Than that whose braid 

Is pluok'd to shade 
The brows with victory glowing ! 
"We tread the land that bore us, 
Our green flag glitters o'er us, 

The friends we've tried 

Are by our side, 
And the foe we hate before us ! 
Farewell, Erin ! — farewell all 
Who live to weep our fall I 



TIS GONE, AND FOIIEVER. 

Tis gone, and forever, the light we saw 
breaking, 
Like heaven's first dawn o'er the sleep of 
the dead — 

When man, from the slumber of ages awak- 
ing, 
Look'd upward, and bless'd the pure ray 
ere it fled ! 

'Tis gone — and the gleams it has left of its 
burning 

But deepen the long night of bondage and 
mourning 

That dark o'er the kingdoms of earth is re- 
turning, 
And, darkest of all, hapless Erin, o'er thee. 

For high was thy hope when those glories 

were darting 
Around thee through all the gross clouds 

of the world ; 
When Truth, from her fetters indignantly 

starting, 
At once, like a sun-burst, her banner un- 

furl'd,' 
Oh ! never shall earth see a moment so 

splendid ! 
Then, then — had one hymn of deliverance 

blended 
The tongues of all nations — how sweet had 

ascended 
The first note of liberty, Erin ! from thee. 



But, shame on those tyrants who envied the 
blessing ! 
And shame on the light race, unworthy 
its good, 
Who, at Death's reeking altar, like furiee, 
caressing 
The young hope of Freedom, baptized it 
in blood ! 
Then vanish'd forever that fair sunny vision, 
Which, spite of the slavish, the cold heart's 

derision, 
Shall long be remember'd, pure, bright, and 
elysian, 
As first it arose, my lost Erin ! on thee. 



I SAW FROM THE BEACH. 

I saw from the beach, when the morning 
was shining, 
A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on ; 
I came when the sun o'er that beach was de- 
clining, — 
The bark was still there, but the wateni 
were gone ! 

Ah ! such is the fate of our life's early promise, 
So passing the spring-tide of joy we have 
known : 
Each wave that we danced on at morning 
ebbs from us, 
And leaves us at eve on the bleak shore 
alone. 

Ne'er tell me of glories serenely adorning 
The close of our day, the calm eve of our 
night ; 
Give me back, give me back the wild fresh- 
ness of morning, 
Her clouds and her tears are worth even- 
ing's best light. 

Oh who would not welcome that moment'* 
returning, 
When passion first waked a new life 
through his frame, 
And his soul — like the wood that grows 
precious in burning — 
Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite 
flame ! 



58 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM. 


So we, sages, sit, 




And 'mid bumpers bright'ningj 


Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken 


From the heaven of wit 


deer ! 


Draw down all its lightning ! 


Though the herd have fled from thee, thy 




home is still here ; 


"Wouldst thou know what first 


Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'er- 


Made our souls inherit 


cast, 


This ennobling thirst 


And the heart and the hand all thy own to 


For wine's celestial spirit? 


the last ! 


It chanced upon that day, 




When, as baods inform us, 


Oh ! what was love made for, if 'tis not the 


Prometheus stole away 


same 


The living fires that warm us. 


Through joy and through torments, through 




glory and shame ? 


The careless youth, when up 


I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that 


To glory's fount aspiring, 


heart, 


Took nor urn nor cup, 


I but know that I love thee, whatever thou 


To hide the pilfer'd fire in ; 


art! 


But, oh, his joy ! when, round 




The halls of heaven spying, 


Thou hast call'd me thy angel in moments 


Amongst the stars he found 


of bliss, 


A bowl of Bacchus lying. 


Still thy angel I'll be, 'mid the horrors of 




this, — ■ 


Some drops were in the bowl, 


Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps 


Remains of last night's pleasure, 


to pursue, 


With which the sparks of soul 


And shield thee, and save thee, or perish 


Mix'd their burning treasure ! 


there too ! 


Hence the goblet's shower 




Hath such spells to win us — 




Hence its mighty power 




O'er that flame within us. 




Fill the bumper fair ! 


FILL THE BUMPER FAIR! 


Every drop we sprinkle 




O'er the brow of care 


Fill the bumper fair ! t 


Smooths away a wrinkle. 


Every drop we sprinkle 




O'er the brow of care 




Smooths away a wrinkle. 





Wit's electric flame 




Ne'er so swiftly passes, 


DEAR HARP OF MY COUNTRY 


As when through the frame 




It shoots from brimming glasses. 


Dear Harp of my country ! in darkness I 


Fill the bumper fair ! 


found thee, 


Every drop we sprinkle 


The cold chain of silence had hung o'er 


O'er the brow of care 


thee long, 


Smooths away a wrinkle. 


When proudly, my own Island Harp ! I un- 




bound thee, 


Sages can, they say, 


And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, 


Grasp the lightning's pinions, 


and song ! 


And bring down its ray 


The warm lay of love and the light note of 


From the starr'd dominions ; 


gladness 




COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Have waken'd thy fondest, thy liveliest 
thrill ; 
But so oft hast thou echo'd the deep sigh of 
sadness, 
That even in thy mirth it will steal from 
thee still. 

Dear Harp of my country ! farewell to thy 
numbers, 
This sweet wreath of song is the last we 
shall twine ; 
Go, sleep with the sunshine of fame on thy 
slumbers, 
Till touch'd by some hand less unworthy 
than mine. 
If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, 

Has throbb'd at our lay, 'tis thy glory alone ; 
I was but as the wind passing heedlessly over, 
And all the wild sweetness I waked was 
thy own. 



REMEMBER THEE. 

Remember thee ! yes, while there's life in 

this heart, 
It shall never forget thee, all lorn as thou art, 
More dear in thy sorrow, thy gloom, and thy 

showers, 
Than the rest of the world in their sunniest 

hours. 

Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glori- 
ous, and free, 

First flower of the earth, and first gem of 
the sea, 

I might hail thee with prouder, with happier 
brow, 

But oh ! could I love thee more deeply than 
now? 

No, thy chains as they rankle, thy blood as 

it runs, 
But make thee more painfully dear to thy 

sons — 
Whose hearts, like the young of the desert 

bird's nest, 
Drink love in each life-drop that flows from 

thy breast. 



OH FOR THE SWORDS OF FORMER 
TIME! 

Oh for the swords of former time ! 

Oh for the men who bore them, 
When arm'd for Right, they stood sublime,. 

And tyrants crouch'd before them : 
When pure yet, ere courts began 

With honors to enslave him, 
The best honors worn by Man 

Were those which Virtue gave him. 
Oh for the swords, &c, &c. 

Oh for the Kings who flourish'd then ! 

Oh for the pomp that crown'd them, 
When hearts and hands of freeborn men 

Were all the ramparts round them. 
When, safe built on bosoms true, 

The throne was but the centre, 
Round which Love a circle drew, 

That Treason durst not enter. 
Oh for the Kings who flourish'd then ! 

Oh for the pomp that crown'd them, 
When hearts and hands of freeborn men,. 

Were all the ramparts round them ! 



WREATH THE BOWL. 

Wreath the bowl with flowers of soul 

The brightest Wit can find us ; 
We'll take a flight toward heaven to-nighfe 

And leave dull earth behind us. 
Should Love amid the wreaths be hid, 

That Joy, the enchanter, brings us, 
No danger fear while wine is near, 

We'll drown him if he stings us. 
Then wreath the bowl with flowers of soul 

The brightest Wit can find us ; 
We'll take a flight toward heaven to-night, 

And leave dull earth behind us. 

'Twas nectar fed of old, 'tis said, 

Their Junos, Joves, Apollos ; — 
And man may brew his nectar too, 

The rich receipt's as follows : 
Take wine like this, let looks of bliss 

Around it well be blended, 
Then bring Wit's beam to warm the stream,, 

And there's your nectar splendid ! 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



So, wreath the bowl with flowers of soul 
The brightest Wit can find us; 

We'll take a flight toward heaven to-night, 
And leave dull earth behind us ! 

Say, why did Time his glass sublime 

Fill up with sands unsightly, 
When wine, he knew, runs brisker through, 

And sparkles far more brightly ? 
Oh, lend it us, and, smiling thus, 

The glass in two we'll sever, 
Make pleasure glide in double tide, 

And fill both ends forever ! 
Then wreath the bowl with flowers of soul 

The brightest Wit can find us ; 
We'll take a flight toward heaven to-night, 

And leave dull earth behind us. 



THE PARALLEL. 

Yes, sad one of Sion 1 — if closely resembling, 
In shame and in sorrow, thy wither'd-up 
heart — 
If drinking deep, deep, of the same " cup of 
trembling" 
Could make us thy children, our parent 
thou art. 

Like thee doth our nation lie conquer'd and 
broken, 
And fallen from her head is the once royal 
crown ; 
In her streets, in her halls, Desolation hath 
spoken, 
And "while it is day yet, her snn hath 
gone down.'" 

Like thine doth her exile, 'mid dreams of 
returning, 
Die far from the home it were life to be- 
hold ; 
Like thine do her sons, in the day of their 
mourning, 
Remember the bright things that bless'd 
them of old. 

1 These verBes « ere written after the perusal of a treatise 
by Mr. Hamilton, professing to prove that the Irish were origi- 
nillr Jews. 

' "Her sun is gone down while it was yet day."— Jer. rv. 9. 



Ah, well may we call her like tree, "the 
Forsaken,'" 
Her boldest are vanish'd, her proudest are 
slaves ; 
And the harps of her minstrels, when gayest 
they waken, 
Have breathings as sad as the wind over 
graves ! 

Yet hadst thou thy vengeance — yet came 
there the morrow, 
That shines out, at last, on the longest 
dark night, 
When the sceptre, that smote thee with 
slavery and sorrow, 
Was sliiver'd at once, like a reed, in thy 
sight : 

When that cup, which for others the proud 
Golden City 4 
Had brimm'd full of bitterness^drench'd 
her own lips, 
And the world she had trampled on heard, 
without pity, 
The howl in her halls, and the cry from 
her ships : 

When the curse Heaven keeps for the haughty 
came over 
Her merchants rapacious, her rulers unjust, 
And, a ruin, at last, for the earth-worm to 
cover,' 
The Lady of Kingdoms* lay low in the 
dust. 



OH, YE DEAD ! 

Oh, ye Dead ! oh, ye Dead ! whom we know 

by the light you give 
From your cold gleaming eyes, though you 
move like men who live, 
Why leave you thus your graves, 
In far-off fields and waves, 



Thou shalt no more he termed Forsaken."— Isaiah, 
Ixii. 4. 
' " How hath the oppressor ceased I the golden city ceased I" 
Isaiah, xiv. 11. 

6 "Thy pomp is hrought down to the grave 2nd th« 

worms cover thee." — Isaiah, xiv. 4. 

Thou shalt no more be called the Lady of Kingdom*."— 
Isaiah, xlvii. 5. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Where the worm and the sea-bird only know 
your bed ; 
To haunt this spot where all 
Those eyes that wept your fall, 

And the hearts that bewail'd you, like your 



It is true — it is true — we are shadows cold 

and wan ; 
It is true — it is true — all the friends we loved 
are gone ; 
But oh ! thus even in death, 
So sweet is still the breath 
Of the fields and the flowers in our youth we 
wander'd o'er, 
That ere, condemn'd, we go 
To freeze 'mid Hecla's' snow, 
We would taste it awhile, and dream we 
live once more ! 



O'DONOHUE'S MISTRESS. 

Op all the fair months, that round the sun 
In liglit-link'd dance their circles run, 

Sweet May, sweet May, shine thou for me ; 
For still, when thy earliest beams arise, 
That youth, who beneath the blue lake lies, 

Sweet May, sweet May, returns to me. 

Of all the smooth lakes, where day-light 

leaves 
His lingering smile on golden eves, 

Fair Lake, fair Lake, thou'rt dear to me ; 
For when the last April sun grows dim, 
Thy Naiads prepare his steed 3 for him 
Who dwells, who dwells, bright Lake, in 
thee. 



1 Paul Zealand mentions that there is a mountain in some 
part of Ireland, where the ghosts of persons who have died in 
foreign lands walk abont and converse with those they meet, 
like living people. If asked why they do not return to their 
homes, they say they are obliged to go to Mount Hecla, and 
disappear immediately. 

'' The particulars of the tradition respecting O'Donohue and 
his White Horse, may be found in Mr. Weld's Account of 
Killarney, or more fully detailed in DerrickVLetters. For 
many years after' his death, the spirit of this hero is supposed 
to have been seen on the morning of May-day, gliding over the 
'ake on his favorite white horse, to the sound of sweet un- 
earthly music, and preceded by groups of youths and maid- 
ens, who Hung wreaths of delicate spring-flowers in his path. 

Among other stories, connected with this Legend of the 
Lakes, it is said that there was a young and beautiful girl, 



Of all the proud steeds, that ever bore 
Young plumed Chiefs on sea or shore, 
White Steed, white Steed, most joy to 
thee ; 
Who still, with the first young glance of 

spring, 
From under that glorious lake dost bring 
Proud Steed, proud Steed, my love to me. 

While, white as the sail some bark unfurls, 
When new ly launch'd, thy long mane' curls, 

Fair Steed, l'ah Steed, as white and free; 
And spirit irom all the lake's deep bowers, 
Glide over the blue wave scattering flowers, 

Fair Steed, around my love and thee. 

Of all the sweet deaths that maidens die, 
Whose lovers beneath the cold wave lie, 

Most sweet, most sweet, that death will be, 
Which, under the next May evening's light, 
When thou and thy steed are lost to sight, 

Dear love, dear love, I'll die for thee. 



SHALL THE HARP THEN BE SILENT. 

Shall the Harp then be silent, when he who 
first gave 
To our country a name, is withdrawn from 
all eyes ? 
Shall a Minstrel of Erin stand mute by the 
grave, 
Where the first — where the last of her 
Patriots lies ? 

No — faint tho' the death-song may fall from 
his lips, 
Though his Harp, like his soul, may with 
shadows be crost, 
Yet, yet shall it sound, 'mid a nation's eclipse. 
And proclaim to the world what a star 
hath been lost !* 



whose imagination was so impressed with the idea of this 
visionary chieftain, that she fancied herself in love with him, 
and at last, in a fit of insanity, on a May-morning threw her- 
self into, the lake. 

3 The boatmen at Killarney call those waves which come 
on a windy day, crested with foam, " O'Donohue's white 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



What a union of all the affections and powers 
By which life is exalted, embellish'd, 
refined, 
Was embraced in that spirit — whose centre 
was ours, 
While its mighty circumference circled 
mankind. 
Oh, who that loves Erin — or who that can see, 
Through the waste of her annals, that 
epoch sublime — 
Like a pyramid raised in the desert — where he 
And his glory stand out to the eyes of all 
time; 

That one lucid interval, snatch'd from the 
gloom 
And the madness of ages, when fill'd with 
his soul, 
A Nation o'erleap'd the dark bounds of her 
doom, 
And for one sacred instant, touch'd Liber- 
ty's goal ? 

Who, that ever hath heard him — hath drank 
at the source 
Of that wonderful eloquence, all Erin's own, 
In whose high-thoughted daring, the fire, 
and the force, 
And the yet untamed spring of her spirit 
are shown ? 

An eloquence rich, wheresoever its wave 
Wander'd free and triumphant, with 
thoughts that shone through, 
As clear as the brook's "stone of lustre," 
that gave, 
With the flash of the gem, its solidity too. 

Who, that ever approach'd him, when free 
from the crowd, 
In a home full of love, he delighted to tread 
'Mong the trees which a nation had given, 
and which bow'd, 
As if each brought a new civic crown for 
his head — 

That home, where — like him who, as fable 
hath told,' 
Put the rays from his brow, that his child 
might come near, 



Every glory forgot, the most wise of the old 
Became all that the simplest and youngest 
hold dear. 

Is there one, who hath thus, through his or- 
bit of life, 
But at distance observed him — through 
glory, through blame, 
In the calm of retreat, in the grandeur of 
strife, 
Whether shining or clouded, still high and 
the same. — 

Such a union of all that enriches life's hour 
Of the sweetness we love, and the great- 
ness we praise, 
As that type of simplicity blended with 
- power, 
A child, with a thunderbolt, truly por- 
trays — 
Oh no, not a heart, that e'er knew him, but 
mourns 
Deep, deep o'er the grave, where such 
glory is shrined — 
O'er a monument Fame will preserve, 'mong 
the urns 
Of the wisest, the bravest, the best of 
mankind ! 



OH, THE SIGHT ENTRANCING. 

Oh, the sight entrancing, 

When morning's beam is glancing 

O'er files, array'd 

With helm and blade, 
And plumes, in the gay wind dancing ! 
When hearts are all high beating, 
And the trumpet's voice repeating 

That soug, whose breath 

May lead to death, 
But never to retreating. 
Oh, the sight entrancing, 
When morning's beam is glancing 

O'er files, array'd 

With helm and blade, 
And plumes, in the gay wind dancing! 

Yet, 'tis not helm or feather — 
For ask yon despot, whether 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



His plumed bands 

Could bring such hands 
And hearts as ours together. 
Leave pomps to those who need 'em — 
Adorn but man with freedom, 

And proud he braves 

The gaudiest slaves 
That crawl where monarchs lead 'em. 
The sword may pierce the beaver, 
Stone walls in time may sever, 

'Tis heart alone, 

Worth steel and stone, 
That keeps men free forever ! 
Oh, that sight entrancing, 
When morning's beam is glancing 

O'er files, array 'd 

With helm and blade, 
And in Freedom's cause advancing ! 



SWEET INNISFALLEN. 

Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well, 
May calm and sunshine long be thine ! 

How fair thou art let others tell, 
While but to feel how fair is mine ! 

Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well, 

And long may light around thee smile, 

And soft as on that evening fell, 
When first I saw thy fairy isle ! 

Thou wert too lovely then for one, 
Who had to turn to paths of care — 

Who had through vulgar crowds to run, 
And leave thee bright and silent there ; 

No more along thy shores to come, 
But, on the world's dim ocean tost, 

Dream of thee sometimes, as a home 
Of sunshine he had seen and lost ! 

Far better in thy weeping hours 
To part from thee, as I do now, 

When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers 
Like sorrow's veil on beauty's brow. 

For, though unrivall'd still thy grace, 
Thou dost not look, as then, too blest, 

But, in thy shadow, 6eem'st a place 
Where weary man might hope to 



Might hope to rest, and find in thee 
A gloom like Eden's, on the day 

He left its shade, when every tree, 

Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way ! 

Weeping or smiling, lovely isle ! 

And still the lovelier for thy tears — 
For though but rare thy sunny smile, 

'Tis heaven's own glance when it appears. 

Like feeling hearts, whose joys are few, 
But, when indeed they come, divine — 

The steadiest light the sun e'er threw 
Is lifeless to one gleam of thine ! 



'TWAS ONE OF THOSE DREAMS. 

'Twas one of those dreams, that by music 

are brought, 
Like a light summer haze, o'er the poet's 

warm thought — 
When, lost in the future, his soul wanders on, 
And all of this life, but its sweetness, is gone. 

The wild notes he beard o'er the water were 

those, 
To which he had sung Erin's bondage and 

woes, 
And the breath of the bugle now wafted 

them o'er 
From Dinis' green isle, to Glena's wooded 

shore. 

He listen'd — while, high o'er the eagle's rude 

nest, 
The lingering sounds on their way loved to 

rest ; 
And the echoes sung back from their full 

mountain choir, 
As if loth to let song so enchanting expire. 

It seem'd as if ev'ry sweet note, that died here, 
Was again brought to life in some airier 

sphere, 
Some heaven in those hills, where the soul 

of the strain 
That had ceased upon earth was awaking 

again ! 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Oh forgive, if, while listening to music 

whose breath 
Scem'd to circle his name with a charm 

against death, 
He should feel a proud Spirit within him 

proclaim, 
" Even so shalt thou live in the echoes of 

Fame : 

" Even so, though thy memory should now 

die away, 
'Twill be caught up again in some happier 

day, 
And the hearts and the voice of Erin prolong, 
Through the answering Future, thy name 

and thy song !" 



FAIREST 1 PUT ON AWHILE. 

Fairest ! put on awhile 

These pinions of light I bring thee, 
And o'er thy own green isle 

In fancy let me wing thee. 
Never did Ariel's plume, 

At golden sunset hover 
Above such scenes of bloom, 

As I shall waft thee over I 

Fields, where the Spring delays 

And fearlessly meets the ardor 
Of the warm Summer's gaze 

With only her tears to guard her. 
Rocks, through myrtle boughs 

In grace majestic frowning — 
Like a bold warrior's brows 

That Love has just been crowning. 

Islets, so freshly fair, 

That never hath bird come nigh them 
But from his course through air 

He hath been won down by them, 1 — 
Types, sweet maid, of thee, 

Whose look, whose blush, inviting, 
Never did Love yet see 

From heaven, without alighting. 



1 In describing the Skeligs (islands of the Barony of Forth), 
Dr. Keating says, " There is a certain attractive virtue in the 
eoil which draws down all the birds that attempt to fly over 
tt, and obliges them to light npon the rock. 1 ' 



Lakes, where the pearl lies hid," 

And caves, where the diamond's sleeping, 
Bright as the gems thy lid 

Oi snow lets fall in weeping. 
Glens,' where Ocean comes, 

To 'scape the wild wind's rancor, 
And Harbors, worthiest homes 

Where Freedom's fleet could anchor. 

Then, if, while scenes so grand, 

So beautiful, shine before thee, 
^ride for thy own dear land 

Should haply be stealing o'er thee, 
Oh, let grief come first, 

O'er pride itself victorious — 
Thinking how man hath curst 

What Heaven hath made so glorious ! 



AS VANQUISH'D ERIN. 

As vanquish'd Erin wept beside 

The Boyne's ill-fated river, 
She saw where Discord, in the tide, 

Had dropp'd his loaded quiver. 
" Lie hid," she cried, " ye venotn'd darts, 

Where mortal eye may shun you ; 
Lie hid — for oh ! the stain of hearts 

That bled for me is on you." 

But vain her wish, her weeping vain, — 

As time too well hath taught her — 
Each year the Fiend returns again, 

And dives into that water ; 
And brings, triumphant, from beneath 

His shafts of desolation, 
And sends them, wing'd with worse than 
death, 

Through all her madd'ning nation. 

Alas for her who sits and mourns, 

Even now beside that river — 
Unwearied still the Fiend returns, 

And stored is still his quiver. 



' "Nennius, a British writer of the niatn century, mentionB 
the abundance of pearls in Ireland. Their princes, he saya, 
hang them behind their ears ; and this we find confirmed by 
a present made a. o. 10!I4, by Gilbert, Bishop of Limerick, to 
Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, of a considerable quan- 
tity of Irish pearls."— O'Balloran. 

' Glengariff. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



65 



M When will this end, ye Powers of God ?" 

She weeping asks forever ; 
But only hears from out that flood, 

The Demon answer, " Never !" 



DESMOND'S SONG.' 

By the Feal's wave henighted, 

Not a star in the skies, 
To thy door by Love lighted, 

I first saw those eyes. 
Some voice whisper'd o'er me 

As the threshold I crost, 
There was ruin before me, 

If I loved, I was lost. 

Love came, and brought sorrow 

Too soon in his train ; 
Yet so sweet, that to-morrow 

'Twere welcome again. 
Though misery's full measure 

My portion should be, 
I would drain it with pleasure, 

If pour'd out by thee. 

Tou, who call it dishonor 

To bow to this flame, 
If you've eyes, look but on her, 

And blush while you blame. 
Hath the pearl less whiteness 

Because of its birth ? 
Hath the violet less brightness 

For growing near earth? 

No — Man for his glory, 

To ancestry flies ; 
While Woman's bright story 

Is told in her eyes. 
While the Monarch but traces 

Through mortals his line, 
Beauty, born of the Graces, 

Ranks next to Divine ! 



,s, the heir of the Desmond family, had accident- 
lily been so engaged in the chase, that he was henighted near 
Tralee, and obliged to take shelter at the Abbey of Peal, in the 
house of one of his dependents, called MacCormac. Cathe- 
rine, a beautiful daughter of his host, instantly inspired the 
Karl with a violent passion, which he could not subdue. He 
married her, and by this inferior alliance alienated his follow- 
ers, whose brutal pride regarded this indulgence of his love 
«san nnrardonable degradation of his family."— Leland, vol. ii. 



I WISH I WAS BY THAT DIM LAKE. 

I wish I was by that dim Lake, 1 
Where sinful souls their farewell take 
Of this vain world, and half-way lie 
In death's cold shadow, ere they die. 
There, there, far from thee, 
Deceitful world, my home should be — 
Where, come what might of gloom and pain, 
False hope should ne'er deceive again ! 

The lifeless sky, the mournful sound 

Of unseen waters falling round — 

The dry leaves, quivering o'er my head, 

Like man, unquiet even when dead — 

These — aye — these shall wean 

My soul from life's deluding scene, 

And turn each thought, each wish I have, 

Like willows, downward toward the grave. 

As they, who to their couch at night 
Would win repose, first quench the light, 
So must the hopes, that keep this breast 
Awake, be quench'd, ere it can vest. 
Cold, cold, my heart must grow, 
Unchanged by either joy or woe, 
Like freezing founts, where all that's thrown 
Within their current turns to stone. 



SONG OF INNISFALL. 

They came from a land beyond the sea, 
And now o'er the western main 

Set sail, in their good ships, gallantly, 
From the sunny land of Spain. 



» These verses are meant to allude to that ancient haunt of 
superstition, called Patrick's Purgatory. L * In the midst o! 
these gloomy regions of Donegall (says Dr. Campbell) lay ■ 
lake, which was to become the mystic theatre of this fabled 
and intermediate state. In the lake were several islands ; but 
one of them was dignified with that called the Mouth of Pur- 
gatory, which, during the dark ages, attracted the notice of all 
Christendom, and was the resort of penitents and pilgrims 
from almost every country in Europe.' 1 

" It was," as the same writer tells us, "one of the most dis- 
mal and dreary spots in the North, almost inaccessible, through 
deep glens and rugged mountains, frightful with impending 
rocks, and the hollow murmurs of the western winds in dark 
caverns, peopled only with such fantastic beings as the mind 
however gay, is, from strange association, wont to appropriat* 
to such gloomy scenes."— Strictures en the Ecclesiastical and 
Literary History Qf Ireland. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



" Oh, where's the Isle we've seen in dreams, 
Our destined home or grave ?" ' 

Thus sung they as, by the morning's beams, 
They swept the Atlantic wave. 

And lo, where afar o'er ocean shines 

A 6parkle of radiant green, 
As though in that deep lay emerald mines, 

Whose light through the wave was seen. 
" 'Tis InuistaiP— 'tis Innisfail !" 

Rings o'er the echoing sea, ' 

While, bending to heaven, the warriors bail 

That home of the brave and free. 

Then turn'd they unto the Eastern wave, 

Where now their Day-god's eye 
A look of such sunny omen gave 

As lighted up sea and sky. 
Nor frown was seen through sky or sea, 

Nor tear on leaf or sod, 
When first on their Isle of Destiny 

-Our Eastern fathers trod. 



■OH ! ARRANMORE, LOVED ARRAN- 
MORE. 

Oh ! Arranmore, loved Arranmore, 

How oft I dream of thee, 
And of those days when, by thy shore, 

I wander'd young and free. 
Full many a path I've tried, since then, 

Through pleasure's flowery maze, 
But ne'er could find the bliss again 

I felt in those sweet days. 

How blithe upon thy breezy cliffs 

At sunny morn I've stood, 
With heart as bounding as the skiffs 

That danced along thy flood ; 
Or, when the western wave gi-ew bright 

With daylight's parting wing, 
Have sought that Eden in its light 

Which dreaming poets sing ;' — 



> " Milesius remembered the remarkable prediction of the 
principal Druid, who foretold that the posterity of Gadelus 
should obtain the possession of a Western Island (which was 
Ireland), and there inhabit."— Keating. 

•The Island of Destiny, one of the ancient names of Ireland. 

• " The inhabitants of Arranmore are still persuaded that, 
Is a clear day, they can see from this coast Hy Brysail or the 



That Eden, where the immortal brave 

Dwell in a land serene, 
Whose bowers beyond the shining wave, 

At sunset, oft are seen. 
Ah, dream too full of sadd'ning truth ! 

Those mansions o'er the main 
Are like the hopes I built in youth, — 

As sonny and as vain 1 



LAY HIS SWORD BY HIS SIDE. 

Lay his sword by his side* — it hath served 
him too well 
Not to rest near his pillow below ; 
To the last moment true, from his hand ere 
it fell, 
Its point was still turn'd to a flying foe. 
Fellow-laborers in life, let them slumber in 
death, 
Side by side, as becomes the reposing 

brave, 

That sword which he loved still unbroke in 
its sheath, 
And himself unsubdued in his grave. 

Yet pause — for, in fancy, a still voice I hear, 
As if breathed from his brave heart's re- 
mains ; — 
Faint echo of that which, in Slavery's ear, 
Once sounded the war-word " Burst your 
chains !" 
And it cries, from the grave where the hero 
lies deep, 
" Though the day of your Chieftain forever 
hath set, 
Oh leave not his sword thus inglorious to 
sleep, — 
It hath victory's life in it yet ! 

" Should some alien, unworthy such weapon 
to wield, 

Dare to touch thee, my own gallant sword, 
Then rest in thy sheath, like a talisman seal'd, 

Or return to the grave of thy chainless lord. 



Enchanted Island, the Paradise of the Pagan Irish, and con- 
cerning which they relate a number of romantic stories."— 
BeauforCs Ancient Topography of Ireland. 

• It was the custom of the ancient Irish, in the manner of 
the Scythians, to bury the favorite swords of their htrott 
along with them. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



But, if grasp'd by a hand that hath known 
the bright use 
Of' a falchion, like thee, on the battle- 
plain — 
Then, at Liberty's summons, like lightning 
let loose, 
Leap forth from thy dark sheath again !" 



THE WINE-CUP IS CIRCLING. 

The wine-cup is circling in Almhin's hall, 1 
And its Chief, 'mid his heroes reclining, 
Looks up, with a sigh, to the trophied wall, 
Where his falchion hangs idly shining. 
When, hark ! that shout 
From the vale without, — 
"Arm ye quick, the Dane, the Dane is 
nigh !" 
Every Chief starts up 
From his foaming cup, 
And " To battle, to battle," is the Finian's 
cry. 



The minstrels have seized their harps of gold, 

And they sing such thrilling numbers — 
Oh ! 'tis like the voice of the Dead, of old, 
Breaking forth from their place of slumbers ! 
Spear to buckler rang 
As the minstrels sang, 
And the Sun-burst' o'er them floated wide ; 
While rememb'ring the yoke 
Which their fathers broke, 
" On for liberty, for liberty !" the Finians 
cried. 

Like clouds of the night the Northmen came, 

O'er the valley of Almhin lowering ; 
While onward moved, in the light of its fame, 
That banner of Erin, towering. 
With the mingling shock 
Ring cliff and rock, 
While, rank on rank, the invaders die : 



• The Palace of Fin MacCumhal (the Fingal of Macpherson) 
In Leinster. It was built on the top of the hill, which has re- 
tained from thence the name of the Hill of Allen, in the Comity 
of Kildare. The Finians, or Fenii, were the celebrated Na- 
tional Militia of Ireland, which this Chief commanded. The 
introduction of the Danes in the above song is an anachronism 
Lost of the Finian and Ossianic legends. 
Th» name given to the banner of the Irish. 



And the shout, that last 
O'er the dying pass'd, 
Was " victory I" was " victory !"- 
Finian's cry. 



OH! COULD WE DO WITH THIS 
WORLD OF OURS. 

Oh 1 could we do with this world of ours 
As thou dos* with thy garden bowers, 
Reject the weeds and keep the flowers, 

What a heaven on earth we'd make it 1 
So bright a dwelling should be our own, 
So warranted free from sigh or frown, 
That angels soon would be coming down, 

By the week or month to take it. 

Like those gay flies that wing through air 
And in themselves a lustre bear, 
A stock of light, still ready there, 

Whenever they wish to use it ; 
So, in this world I'd make for thee, 
Our hearts should all like fireflies be, 
And the flash of wit or poesy 

Break forth whenever we choose it. 

While every joy that glads our sphere 
Hath still some shadow hovering near, 
In this new world of ours, my dear, 

Such shadows will all be omitted : — 
Unless they are like that graceful one, 
Which, when thou'rt dancing in the sun, 
Still near thee, leaves a charm upon 

Each spot where it hath flitted ! 



THE DREAM OF THOSE DAYS.* 

The dream of those days when first I sung 
thee is o'er, 

Thy triumph hath stain'd the charm thy sor 
rows then wore, 

And even of the light which Hope once shed 
o'er thy chains 

Alas, not a gleam to grace thy freedom re- 
mains. 



* Written in one of those moods of hopelessness and dis- 
gust which come occasionally over the mind, in contempla- 
ting the present state of Irish patriotism. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



8ay, is it that slavery sunk so deep in thy 

heart, 
That still the dark brand is there, though 

chain less thou art; 
And Freedom's sweet fruit, for which thy 

spirit long burn'd, 
Now, reaching at last thy lip, to ashes hath 

turn'd ? 

Up Liberty's steep by Truth and Eloquence 
led, 

With eyes on her temple fix'd, how proud 
was thy tread ! 

Ah, better thou ne'er hadst lived that sum- 
mit to gain, 

Or died in the porch, than thus dishonor the 
fane. 



SILENCE IS IN OUR FESTAL HALLS. 

Silence is in our festal halls, — 
O Son of Song ! thy course is o'er ; 

In vain on thee sad Erin calls, 

Her minstrel's voice responds no more ; — 



> It is hard] j necessary, perhaps, to Inform the reader, that 
these lines aro meant as a tribute of sincere friendship to the 
memory of an old and vilaed colleague in this wn-k, Sir John 



All silent as the Eolian shell 

Sleeps at the close of some bright day, 
When the sweet breeze, that waked its swell 

At sunny morn, hath died away. 

Yet, at our feasts, thy spirit long, 

Awaked by music's spell, shall rise ; 
For, name so link'd with deathless song 

Partakes its charm and never dies : 
And even within the holy fane, 

When music wafts the soul to heaven, 
One thought to him, whose earliest strain 

Was echo'd there, shall long be given. 

But, where is now the cheerful day, 

The social night, when, by ihy side, 
He, who now weaves this parting lay, 

His skilless voice with thine allied ; 
And sung those songs whose every tone, 

When bard and minstrel long have past, 
Shall still, in sweetness all their own, 

Embalm'd by fame, undying last ? 

Yes, Erin, thine alone the fame, — 

Or, if thy bard have shared the crown 
From thee the borrow'd glory came, 

And at thy feet is now laid down. 
Enough, if Freedom still inspire 

His latest song, and still there be, 
As evening closes round his lyre, 

One ray upon its chords from thee. 



, 



LALLA EOOKH. 



In* the «leventh year of the reign of Aurungzebe, Abdalla, 
King of the Lesser Bucharia, a lineal descendant from the 
Great Zingis, having abdicated the throne in favor of his son, 
«et out on a pilgrimage to the Shrine of the Prophet, and, 
passing into India through the delightful valley of Cashmere, 
rested for a short time at Delhi on his way. He was enter- 
tained by Aurungzebe in a style of magnificent hospitality, 
worthy alike of the visitor and the host, and was afterward 
escorted with the same splendor to Surat, where he embarked 
for Arabia. During the stay of the Royal Pilgrim at Delhi, a 
marriage was agreed upon between the Prince, his son, and 
the youngest daughter of the Emperor, Lalla Rookh 1 — a 
orincess described by the poets of her time as more beautiful 
than Leila. Shirine, Dewilde, or any of those heroines whose 
names and loves embellish the songs of Persia and Hindostan. 
It was intended that the nuptials should be celebrated at 
Cashmere ; where the young King, as soon as the cares of the 
empire would permit, was to meet, for the first time, his 
lovely bride, and, after a few months' repose in that enchant- 
ing valley, conduct her over the snowy hilts into Bucharia. 

The day of Lalla Rookh's departure from Delhi was as 
Bplendid as sunshine and pageantry could make it. The 
bazaars and baths were all covered with the richest tapestry ; 
hundreds of gilded barges upon the Jumna floated with then- 
banners shining in the water ; while through the streets 
groups of beautiful children went strewing the most delicious 
flowers around, as in that Persian festival called Gul Reazee, 
or the Scattering of the Roses, till every part of the city was 
as fragrant as if a caravan of musk from Khoten had passed 
through it. The Princess, having taken leave of her kind 
father. — who at parting hung a cornelian of Yemen round her 
neck, on which was inscribed a verse from the Koran,— and 
naving sent a considerable present to the Fakirs, who kept 
np tue perpetual lamp in her sister's tomb, meekly ascended 
the palankeen prepared for her ; and, while Aurungzebe stood 
to take a last look from his balcony, the procession moved 
slowly on the road to Lahore. 

Seldom had the Eastern world Been a cavalcade so superb. 
From the gardens in the suburbs to the imperial palace it was 
one unbroken line of splendor. The gallant appearance of the 
Rajahs and Mogul lords, distinguished by those insignia of 
the Emperor's favor, 2 the feathers of the egret of Cashmere in 
their turbans, and the small silver-rimmed kettle-drums at the 
bows of their saddles; — the costly armor of their Cavaliers, 
who vied, on this occasion, with the guards of the great Keder 
Khan. 3 in the brightness of their silver battle-axes and the 



' Tulip Cheek. 

3 " One mark of honor or knighthood bestowed by the em- 
peror is the permisBion to wear a small kettle-drum at the 
bows of their saddles, which at first was invented for the 
training of hawks, and is worn in the field by all sports- 
men for that end." — Fryer's Travels. 

"Those on whom the king has comerred the privilege 
most wear an ornament of jewels on the right side of the tur- 
ban, surmounted by a high plume of the feathers of a kind of 
egret."— Elphinstane's Account, of Cavbul. 

• " Khedar Khan, the Khakan, or King of Turquestan, be- 



massineas of their maces of gold ;— the glittering of the gill 
pineapples, 4 on the tops o' the palankeens ;— the embroidered 
trappings of the elephants, bearing on their backs small 
turrets, in the shape ot little antique temples, within which 
the ladies of Lalla Rookh lay, as it were enshrined ; — the roae- 
colored veils of tf>e Princess's own sumptuous litter, 5 at tha 
front of which * fair young female slave sat fanning her 
through the cu'tains with feathers of the Argus pheasant's 
wing ; — and the lovely troop of Tartarian and CashmeriaD 
maids of hoinr, whom the young King had sent to accompany 
his bride, ana who rode on each side of the litter, upon small 
Arabian horses; — all was brilliant, tasteful, and magnificent, 
aud pleasoa even the critical and fastidious Fadladeen, Great 
Nazir or iJhan**»rlain of the Haram, who was borne in his 
palanke™ immediately after the Princess, and considered him- 
self n^t the least important personage of the pageant. 

Fadladeen was a judge of everything,— from the pencilling 
of h Circassian's eyelids to the deepest questions of science 
«ud literature ; from the mixture of a conserve of rose-leavea 
to the composition of an epic poem : and such influence had 
his opinion upon the various tastes of the day tha\ »,'i the 
cooks and poets of Delhi stood in awe of him. Bis political 
conduct and opinions were founded upon that line Mf Sadi,— 
'' should the Prince at noonday say, 'It is night,' ueclare that 
you behold the moon and stars." And his zeal for religion, 
of which Aurungzebe was a munificent protector, 6 was about 



yond the Gihon (at the end of the eleventh century,) when- 
ever he appeared abroad was preceded by seven hundred 
horsemen with silver battle-axes, and was followed by an 
equal number bearing maces of gold." — Richardson's Disser- 
tation prefixed to his Dictionary, 

4 " The kubdeh, a large golden knob, generally in the shape 
of a pineapple, on the top of the canopy over the litter or 
palanquin." — Scott's Notes on the Bahardanush. 

6 In the poem of Zobair, in the Moallakat, there is the 
following lively description of" a company of maidens seated 
on camels:"— 

" They are mounted in carriages covered with costly awn 
ings and with rose-colored veils, the linings of which have 
the hue of crimson Andemwood. 

"When they ascend from the bosom of the vale, they sit 
forward on the saddle-cloths with every mark of a voluptuous 
gayety. 

"Now, when they have reached the brink of yon blue gush- 
ing rivulet, they fix the poles of their tents like the Arabs 
with a settled mansion." 

8 This hypocritical emperor would have made a wsrtny 
associate of certain Holy Leagues. " He held the cloak o! 
religion," says Dow, "between his actions and the vulgar; 
and impiously thanked the Divinity for a success which he 
owed to his own wickedness. When he was muideringand 
persecuting his brothers and their families, he was building a 
magnificent mosque at Delhi, as an offering to God for His 
assistance to him in the civil wars. He acted as high priest 
at ine consecration of this temple; and made a practice oX 
attending divine service there, in the humble dress nf ■ 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



u» disinterested as that of the goldsmith who fell in love with 
the diamond eyeo of the idol of Jugghernaut. 1 

During the flrst days of their journey, Lalla Rookh, who 
nad passed all her life within the shadow of the royal gardens 
of Delhi, found enough in the beauty of the scenery through 
which they passed to interest her mind, and delight her im- 
agination ; and when, at evening or in the heat of the day, 
they turned off from the high road to those retired and 
romantic places which had been selected for her encamp- 
ments,— sometimes on the hanks of a 6mall rivulet, as clear as 
the waters of the Lake of Pearl ; 5 sometimes under the sacred 
shade of a Banian tree, from which the view opened upon a 
glade covered with antelopes ; and often in those hidden, 
embowered spots, described by one from the Isles of the 
West, 3 as "p'aces of melancholy, delight, and safety, where 
all the company around was wild peacocks and turtle-doves," 
— she felt a charm in these scenes, so lovely and so new to 
her, which, for a time, made her indifferent to every other 
amusement. But Lalla Rookh was young, and the young love 
variety ; nor could the conversation of her ladies and the great 
chamberlain, Fadiadeen, (the only persons, of course, admitted 
to her pavilion,) sufficiently enliven those many vacant hours, 
which were devoted neither to the pillow nor the palankeen. 
There was a little Persian slave who sung sweetly to the vina, 
and who, now and then, lulled the Princess to sleep with the 
ancient ditties of her country, about the loves of Wamak and 
Ezra, 4 the fair-haired Zal and his mistress Rodahver ; 6 not for- 
getting the combat of Ru6tam with the terrible White Demon. 6 
At other times she was amused by those graceful dancing-girls 
of Delhi, who had been permitted by the Brahmins of the 
Great Pagoda to attend her. much to the horror of the good 
Mussulman, Fadiadeen, who could see nothing graceful or 
agreeable in idolaters, and to whom the very tingling of their 
golden anklets' was an abomination. 

Bat these and many other diversions were repeated til! they 



fakeer. But when he lifted one hand to the Divinity, he with 
the other signed warrants for the assassination of his rela- 
tions.' 1 — History of Hindustan, vol. iii., p. 235. See also the 
curious letter of Aurungzebe given in the Oriental Collections, 
vol. i., p. 320. 

i "The idol at Jaghernat has two fine diamonds for eyes. 
No goldsmith is suffered to enter the pagoda; one having 
stolen one of these eyes, being locked up all night with the 
idol."— Tavernier. 

= " In the neighborhood is Notte Gill, or the Lake of Pearl, 
which receives this name from its pellucid water. "—Pennant's 
Eindostan. 

' Sir Thomas Roe, ambassador from James I. to Jehanguire. 

* " The Romance Wamakweazra. written in Persian verse, 
which contains the loves of W.iinak and TSzra, two celebrated 
lovers who lived before the time of Mohammed." — Note on the 
Oriental Tales. 

6 There is much beauty in the passage which describes the 
Blaves of Rodahver sitting on the bank of the river and throw- 
ing flowers into the stream in order to draw the attention of 
the young hero who is encamped on the opposite side. Vide 
" Champion's Translation of the Shah Nameh of Ferdousi." 

* Rustam is the Hercules of the Persians. For the particu- 
lars of his victory over the S-ipeed Deeve. or White Demon, 
see Oriental CoUections, vol. ii., p. 45. Near the city of Shiraz 

tion of this combat, called the " Kelaat-i-Deev Sepeed," or 
Castle of the White Giant, which Father Angelo, in his 
Gazophylaciurn. Persicum, p. 12T, declares to have been the 
most memorable monument of antiquity which he had seen in 
Persia. Vide "Ouseley's Persian Miscellanies." 

* "The women of the idol, or dancing-girls of the Pagoda, 
have little golden bells fastened to their feet, the soft harmo- 
nious tinkling of which vibrates in unison with the exquisite 
melody of their voices."— Maurice' $ Indian. Antiquities. "The 
Arabian princesses wear golden rings on their fingers, to 
which little bells are suspended, as well as in the flowing 
tresses of their hair, that their superior rank may be known." 
Vide "Calmet's Dictionary," art. Belli. 



lost all their charm, and the nights and noondays were begin- 
ning to move heavily, when at length, it was recollected that, 
among the attendants sent by the bridegroom, was a young 
poet of Cashmere, much celebrated throughout the va ley for 
his manner of reciting the stories of the East, on whom hi» 
royal master had conferred the privilege of beinj; admitted to 
the pavilion of the Princess, that he might help to beguile th» 
tediousness of the journey by Bome of his most agreeable re- 
citals. At the mention of a poet. Fadiadeen elevated his 
critical eyebrows, and, having refreshed his faculties with a 
dose of that delicious opium, 8 which is distilled from the 
black poppy of the Thebais, gave orders for the minstrel to bo 
forthwith introduced into the presence. 

The Princess, who had once in her life seen a poet from be- 
hind the screens of gauze in her father's hall, and had con- 
ceived from that specimen no very favorable ideas of the cast 
expected but little in this new exhibition to interest her; — 
she felt inclined however to alter her opinion on the very first 
appearance of Feramorz. He was a youth about Lalla Rookh's 
own age. and graceful as that idol of woman, Chrishna (the 
Indian Apollo), 8 — such as be appears to their young imagina- 
tions, heroic, beautiful, breathing music from his very eyes, 
and exalting the religion of his worshippers into love. HiB 
dress was simple, yet not without some marks of costliness, 
and the ladies of the Princess were not long in discovering 
that the cloth which encircled his high Tartarian cap, was of 
the most delicate kind that the shawl-goats of Tibet supply. 
Here and there, too, over his vest, which was confined by a 
flowered girdle of Kashan, hung strings of fine pearl, dis- 
posed with an air of studied negligence ; — nor did the exquisite 
embroidery of his sandals escape the observation of these 
fair critics ; who, however they mi^ht give way to Fadiadeen 
upon the unimportant topics of religion and government, had 
the spirit of martyrs in ev.-rvliiinL' relating to such momentous 
matters as jewels and embroidery. 

For the purpose of relieving the pauses of recitation by 
music, the young Cashmerian held in his hand a kitar.— such 
as, in old times, the Arab maids of the west used to listen to 
by moonlight in the gardens of the Alhambra.— and. having 
premised, with much humility, that the story he was about to 
relate was founded on the adventures of that Veiled Prophet 
of Khorassan, 10 who. in the year of the Hegira 163, created 
such alarm throughout the Eastern Empire, made an obeisance 
to the Princess, and thus began :— 



THE VEILED PROPHET OF 
KHORASSAN." 

In that delightful Province of the Sun, 
The first of Persian lands he shines upon, 
Where, all the loveliest children of his beam, 
Flowerets and fruits blush over every 
stream, 1 ' 1 



8 " Abou-Tige. ville de la Thebaide, ou il croit beaucoup do 
pavot noir, dont se fait le meillenr opium." — D'Herbelot. 

" " He and the three Ramas are described as youths of per- 
fect beauty ; and the Princesses of Hindustan were all pas- 
sionately in love with Crishua, who continues to this hour the 
darling god of the Indian women." — Sir W. Jones, on the gods 
of Greece, Italy, and India. 

10 For the real history of this impostor, whose original name 
was Hakera ben Haschem, and who was called Mokanna from 
the veil of silver gauze (or, as others say, golden) which ha 
always wore, vide D'Herbelot. 

" "Khorassan signifies, in the old Persian language, 
Province or Region of the Sun." 

" "The fruits of Merit are finer than those of any other 
place ; and one cannot see in any other city such palaces, 
with groves, and streams, and gardenB." — Eon Haukal's 
Geography. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



And fairest of all streams, the Murga roves 
Among Merou's 1 bright palaces and 

groves ,-r- 
There on that throne, to which the blind 

belief 
Of millions raised him, sat the Propbet- 

Chief, 
The Great Mokanna. O'er his features 

hung 
The veil, the silver veil, which he had flung 
In mercy there, to hide from mortal sight 
His dazzling brow, till man could bear its 

light 
For, far less luminous, his votaries said, 3 
Were even the gleams miraculously shed 
O'er MoussaV cheek, when down the Mount 

he trod, 
All glowing from the presence of his God ! 

On either side, with ready hearts and hands, 
His chosen guard of bold Believers stands ; 
Young fire-eyed disputants, who deem their 

swords, 
On points of faith, more eloquent than 

words ; 
And such their zeal, there's not a youth with 

brand 
Uplifted there, but, at the Chief's command, 
Would make his own devoted heart its 

sheath, 
And bless the lips that doom'd so dear a 

death ! 
. In hatred to the Caliph's hue of night,' 
Their vesture, helms and all, is snowy 

white; 
Their weapons various — some equipp'd for 

speed, 
With javelins of the light Kathaian reed; 6 
Or bows of buffalo horn, and shining quivers 



1 One of the royal cities of Khorassan. 

* " See jlisciples assuroient quMl se couvroit le visage pour 
ne pas eblouir ceux qui l'approchoit par l'eclat de son visage, 
eomme fioyie."—D'Serbelot. 

' Jtoses. 

« Black was the color adopted by the Caliphs of the House 
»f Abbas, in their garments, turbans, and standards. 

"11 faut remarquer ici touchant les habits Wanes des 
disciples de Hakem. que la couleur des habits, des coiffures, et 
des etendardB des Khalifes Abassides etant la uoire, ce chef de 
rebelles ne pouvoit pas choisir uue qui lui fut plus op- 
posed."— D' Ileroelol. 

* "Oar dark javelins, exquisitely wrought of Kathaian 
reedB, slender and delicate."— Poem of Am.ru. 



Fill'd with the stems' that bloom on Iran'* 
rivers ;' 

While some, for war's more terrible attacks, 

Wield the huge mace and ponderous battle- 
axe; 

And as they wave aloft in morning's beam 

The milk-white plumage of their helms, they 
seem 

Like a chenar-tree grove," when winter 
throws 

O'er all its tufted heads his feathering 
snows. 

Between the porphyry pillars that uphold 
The rich moresque-work of the roof of gold, 
Aloft the Haram's curtain'd galleries rise, 
Where, through the silken net-work, glan- 
cing eyes, 
From time to time, like sudden gleams that 

glow 
Through autumn clouds, shine o'er the pomp 

below. 
What impious tongue, ye blushing saints, 

would dare 
To hint that aught but H^nven had p^a^ed 

you there ? 
Or that the loves of this light world could 

bind 
In their gross chain your Prophet's soaring 

mind ? 
No — wrongful thought ! — commission'd from 

above 
To people Eden's bowers with shapes of 

love, 
(Creatures so bright, that the same lips and 

eyes 
They wear on earth will serve in Paradise,) 
There to recline among Heaven's native 

maids, 
And crown the Elect with bliss that never 

fades !— 
Well hath the Piophet-Chief his bidding 

done ; 



6 Pichula, used anciently for arrows by the Persians. 

7 The Persians call this plant Gaz. The celebrated shaft of 
Isfendiar, one of their ancient heroes, was made of it. — 
" Nothing can be more beautiful than the appearance of this 
plant in flower during the rains on the baaks of risers, whera 
it is usually interwoven with a lovely twining ascle\>ias." — Si? 
W. Jones, Botanical Observations. 

8 The oriental plane. "The chenar is a delightful tree; 
its bole is of a fine white and smooth bart aud its foliage,, 
which grows in a tuft at the summit, is of a or:ght green."— 
Moneys Travels. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



And every beauteous race beneath the sun, 
From those who kneel at Brahma's burning 

founts,' 
To the fresh nymphs bounding o'er Yemen's 

mounts ; 
From Persia's eyes of full and fawn-like ray, 
To the small, half-shut glances of Kathay;" 
And Georgia's bloom, and Azab's darker 

smiles, 
And the gold ringlets of the Western Isles ; 
All, all are there ; — each land its flower hath 

given, 
To form that fair young nursery for 

Heaven ! 

But why this pageant now? this arm'd 

array ? 
What triumph crowds the rich Divan to-day 
With turban'd heads of every hue and race 
Bowing before that veil'd and awful face, 
Like tulip-beds of different shape and dyes 3 
Bcndina; beneath the invisible west-wind 

sighs? 
What new-made mystery now for Faith to 

sign 
And blood to seal as genuine and divine, — 
What dazzling mimicry of God's own 

power 
Hath the bold Prophet plann'd to grace this 

hour? 
"Vot such the pageant now, though not less 

proud, 
Ton warrior youth advancing from the 

crowd 
With silver bow, with, belt of broider'd 

crape, 
And fur-bound bonnet of Bucharian shape, 4 
So fiercely beautiful in form and eye, 
Like war's wild planet in a summer sky — 
That youth to-day, — a proselyte, worth 

hordes 
Of cooler spirits and less practised 

swords, — 



1 " Near Chittagong, esteemed as holy." 

J China. 

» " The name of tulip is said to be of Turkish extraction, 
and given to the flower on account of its resembling a 
tnrban."— Beckmans lli«><<nj of Inventions. 

4 " The inhabitants of Bucharia wear a round cloth bonnet 
(hapcd much after the Polish fashion, having a large fin- 
border. They tie their^kaftans about the middle with a girdle 
3f a kind of silk crape, several times round the body." — 
itdtpendent Tartary, in Pinkirton's Col. 



Is come to join, all bravery and belief, 
The creed and standard of the Heaven-sent 
Chief. 

Though few his years, the West already 

knows 
Young Azim's fame ;— beyond the Olympian 

snows, 
Ere manhood darken'd o'er his downy cheek, 
O'erwhelm'd in fight and captive to the 

Greek, 
He linger'd there till peace dissolved his 

chains. 
Ob ! who could, even in bondage, tread the 

plains 
Of glorious Greece, nor feel his spirit rise 
Kindling within him ? who, with heart and 

eyes, 
Could walk where Liberty had b&en, nor set 
The shining foot-prints of her Deity, 
Nor feel those god-like breathings in the air, 
Which mutely told her spirit had been there ? 
Not he, that youthful warrior, — no, too well 
For his soul's quiet work'd the awakening 

spell ; 
And now, returning to his own dear land, 
Full of those dreams of good that, vainly 

grand, 
Haunt the young heart; — proud view.s of 

human-kind, 
Of men to gods exalted and refined; — 
False views like that horizon's fair deceit, 
Where earth and heaven but seem, alas, to 

meet ! — 
Soon as he heard an arm divine was raised 
To right the nations, and beheld, emblazed 
On the white flag Mokanna's host unfurl'd, 
Those words of sunshine, " Freedom to the 

World," 
At once his faith, his sword, his soul obey'd 
The inspiring summons ; every chosen blade 
That fought beneath that banner's sacred text 
Seem'd doubly edged, for this world and the 

next; 
And ne'er did Faith with her smooth band- 
age bind 
Eyes more devoutly willing to be blind 
In Virtue's cause — never was soul inspired 
With livelier trust in what it most desired, 
Than his, the enthusiast there, who kneeling 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



73 



With pious awe, before that silver veil, 
Believes the form to which he bends his knee 
Some pure, redeeming angel, sent to free 
This fetter'd world from every bond and 

stain, 
And bring its primal glories back again ! 

Low as young Azim knelt, that motley 

crowd 
Of all earth's nations sunk the knee and 

bow'd. 
With shouts of " Alia !" echoing long and 

loud ; 
While high in air, above the Prophet's head, 
Hundreds of banners, to the sunbeam 

spread, 
Waved like the wings of the white birds 

that fan 
The flying throne of star-taught Soliman! 1 
Then thus he spoke: — "Stranger, though 

new the frame 
Thy soul inhabits now, I've track'd its 

flame 
For many an age, 2 in every chance and 

change 
Of that existence through whose varied 

range, — 
As through a torch-race, where, from hand 

to hand 
The flying youths transmit their shining 

brand, — 
From frame to frame the unextinguisk'd 

soul 
Rapidly passes, till it reach the goal ! 

" Nor think 'tis only the gross spirits, 

warm'd 
With duskier fire and for earth's medium 

form'd, 
That run this course ; — beings the most 

divine 
Thus deign through dark mortality to shine. 



Such was the Essence that in Adam dwelt, 
To which all heaven, except the Proud One, 

knelt : a 
Such the refined Intelligence that glow'd 
In Moussa's frame — and, thence descending, 

f.ow'd 
Through many a prophet's breast' — in Issa* 

shone, 
And in Mohammed burn'd ; till, hastening on, 
(As a bright river that, from fall to fall 
In many a maze descending, bright through 

all, 
Finds some fair region where, each labyrinth 

past, 
In one full lake of light it rests at last !) 
That Holy Spirit, settling calm and free 
From lapse or shadow, centres all in me !" 

Again, throughout the assembly at these 

words, 
Thousands of voices rung : the warriors' 

swords 
Were pointed up to heaven ; a sudden wind 
In the open banners play'd, and from behind 
Those Persian hangings that but ill could 

screen 
The Haram's loveliness, white hands were 

seen 
Waving embroider'd scarves, whose motion 

gave 
A perfume forth — like those the Houris 

wave 
When beckoning to their bowers the immor- 
tal brave: 

"But these," pursued the Chief, "are 

truths sublime, 
That claim a holier mood and calmer time 
Than earth allows us now; — this sword 

must first 
The darkling prison-house of mankind burst, 



1 This wonderful throne was called the " Star of the Genii." 
»Vhen Solomon travelled, the eastern writers say, -he had a 
Jsrpet of green silk on which his throne was placed, being of 
» pro.; gious length and breadth, and sufficient for all his 
forces to stand upon, the men placing themselves on his right 
hand and the spirits on his left ; and that when all were in 
order, the wind, at his command, took up the carpet, and 
transported it with all that were upon it, wherever he pleased ; 
the army of birds at the same time flying over their heads, 
ind forming a kind cf canopy to shade them from the sun." 
-Sale's Koran, vol. ii., p. 214, note. 

• "The transmigration of souls was one of his doctrines." 



3 And when we said unto the angels, "Worship Adam," 
they all worshipped him except Eblis, (Lucifer,) who refused 
— The Koran, chap. ii. 

■•This is according to D'Herbelot's account of the doctrines 
of Mokanna : — " Sa doctrine etoit que Dieu avoit pris una 
forme et figure humaine . depuis qu'il eut commande aux 
Anges d'adorer Adam, le premier des hommes. Qu' apres la 
mort d'Adam, Dieu etoit apparu sous la figure de plusieurs 
prophetes, et autres grands hommes, qu'il avoit choisis, 
jusqu'a ce qu'il prit cede d'Abu Moslem, Prince de Khorassan, 
le:quel professoit l'erreur de la Tenassukhiah, on Metempsy- 
claose ; et qu' apres la mort de ce Prince, )a Divinite etott 
passee, et descendue en sa personne." 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Ere Peace can visit them, or Truth let in 
Her wakening daylight on a world of sin! 
But then, celestial warriors, then when all 
Earth's shrines and thrones before our ban- 
ner fall ; 
When the glad slave shall at these feet lay- 
down 
His broken chain, the tyrant lord his crown, 
The priest his book, the conqueror his 

wreath, 
And from the lips of truth one mighty 

breath 
Shall, like a whirlwind, scatter in its breeze 
That whole dark pile of human mockeries; — 
Then shall the reign of Mind commence on 

earth, 
And starting fresh as from a second birth, 
Man, in the sunshine of the world's new 

spring, 
Shall walk transparent, like some holy thing ! 
Then, too, your Prophet from his angel 

brow 
Shall cast the veil that hides its splendors 

now, 
And gladden'd Earth shall, through her 

wide expanse, 
Bask in the glories of this countenance ! 

" For thee, young warrior, welcome ! — 

thou hast yet 
Some tasks to learn, some frailties to forget, 
Ere the white war-plume o'er thy brow can 

wave ; 
But, once my own, mine all till in the 

grave !" 

The pomp is at an end, — the crowds are 
gone — 

Each ear and heart still haunted by the tone 

Of that deep voice which thrill'd like Alla's 
own ! 

The young all dazzled by the plumes and 
lances, 

The glittering throne, and Haram's half- 
caught glances ; 

The old deep pondering on the promised 
reign 

Of peace and truth ; and all the female train 

Ready to risk their eyes could they but 
gaze 

A moment on that brow's miraculous blaze ! 



But there was one, among the chosen 
maids 
Who blush'd behind the gallery's silken 



One, to whose soul the pageant of to-day 
Has been like death ; — you saw her pale dis- 
may, 
Ye wondering sisterhood, and heard the 

burst 
Of exclamation from her lips, when first 
She saw that youth, too well, too dearly 

known, 
Silently kneeling at the Prophet's throne. 

Ah Zelica ! there was a time when bliss 
Shone o'er thy heart from every look of his ; 
When but to see him, hear him, breathe the 

air 
In which he dwelt, was thy soul's fondest 

prayer ! 
When round him hung such a perpetual 

spell, 
Whate'er he did, none ever did so well. 
Too happy days! when, if he touch'd a 

flower 
Or gem of thine, 'twas sacred from that 

hour ; 
When thou didst study him, till every tone 
And gesture and dear look became thy own, 
Thy voice like his, the changes of his face 
In thine reflected with still lovelier grace, 
I Like echo, sending back sweet music fraught 
With twice the aerial sweetness it had 

brought ! 
Yet now he comes — brighter than even he 
E'er beam'd before, — but ah ! not bright for 

thee ; 
No — dread, unlook'd for, like a visitant 
From the other world, he comes as if to 

haunt 
Thy guilty soul with dreams of lost delight, 
Long lost to all but memory's aching sight : — 
Sad dreams ! as when the spirit of our youth 
Returns in sleep, sparkling with all the truth 
And innocence once ours, and leads us back, 
In mournful mockery, o'er the shining track 
Of our young life, and points out every ray 
Of hope and peace we've lost upon the way ! 



Once happy pair! 
groves 



proud Bokhara's 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Who had not heard of their first youthful 

loves ? 
Born by that ancient flood, 1 which from its 

spring 
In the Dark Mountains swiftly wandering, 
Enrich'd by every pilgrim brook that shines 
With relics from Bucharia's ruby mines, 
And, lending to the Caspian half its strength, 
In the cold Lake of Eagles sinks at length ; — 
There, on the banks of that bright river 

born, 
rhe flowers that hung above its wave at 

morn 
Biess'd not the waters as they murmur'd by, 
Witt) holier scent and lustre than the sigh 
And virgin glance of first affection cast 
Upon their youth's smooth current, as it 

pass'd ! 
But war disturb'd this vision — far away 
From her fond eyes, summon'd to join the 

array 
Of Persia's warriors on the hills of Thrace, 
The youth exchanged his sylvan dwelling- 
place 
For the rude tent and war-field's deathful 

clash ; 
His Zelica's sweet glances for the flash 
Of Grecian wild-fire, and love's gentle chains 
For bleeding bondage on Byzantium's 

plains. 

Month after month, in widowhood of soul 
Drooping, the maiden saw two summers roll 
Their suns away — but, ah ! how cold and 

dim 
Kven summer suns when not beheld with 

him! 
From time to time ill-omen'd rumors came, 
(I/ike spirit-tongues, muttering the sick 

man's name, 
i'»st ere he dies,) — at length those sounds 

of dread 
Fell withering on her soul, " Azim is dead !" 
Oh, grief beyond all other griefs, when fate 
First leaves the young heart lone and deso- 
late 
1 the wide world, without that only tie 



1 The Amoo, which rises in the Belur Tag, or Dark Moun- 

bnnches, one of which falls into the Caspian Sea, and the 
other Into Aral Nahr, or the Lake of Eagles. 



For which it loved to live or fear'd to 

die ; — 
Lorn as the hung-up lute that ne'er hath 

spoken 
Since the sad day its master-chord was 

broken ! 

Fond maid, the sorrow of her soul was 

such, 
Even reason sunk — blighted beneath its 

touch ; 
And though, ere long, her sanguine spirit 

rose 
Above the first dead pressure of its woes, 
Though health and bloom return'd, the 

delicate chain 
Of thought, once tangled, never clear'd 

again. 
Warm, lively, soft as in youth's happiest 

day, 
The mind was still all there, but turn'd 

astray ; — 
A wandering bark, upon whose pathway 

shone 
All stars of heaven, except the guiding one ! 
Again she smiled, nay, much and brightly 

smiled, 
But 'twas a lustre, strange, unreal, wild ; 
And when she sung to her lute's touching 

strain, 
'Twas like the notes, half ecstasy, half pain, 
The bulbul 2 utters ere her soul depart, 
When, vanquish' d by some minstrel's pow- 
erful art, 
She dies upon the lute whose sweetness 

broke her heart ! 

Such was the mood in which that mission 

found 
Young Zelica, — that mission, which around 
The Eastern world, in every region blest 
With woman's smile sought out its loveliest 
To grace that galaxy of lips and eyes 
Which the Veil'd Prophet destined for the 

skies ! — 
And such quick wercome as a spark receives 
Dropp'd on a bed of autumn's wither'd 

leaves, 
Did every tale of these entnusiasts find 
In the wild maiden's sorrow-blighted mind. 

> The nightingale. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



All fire at once, the maddening zeal she 

caught ; — 
Elect of Paradise ! blest, rapturous thought ; 
Predestined bride, in Heaven's eternal dome, 
Of some brave youth — ha ! durst they say 

" of some f n 
No — of the one, one only object traced 
In her heart's core too deep to be effaced ; 
The one whose memory, fresh as life, is 

twined 
With every broken link of her lost mind ; 
"Whose image lives, though reason's self be 

wreck'd, 
Safe 'mid the ruins of her intellect ! 

Alas, poor Zelica ! it needed all 
The fantasy which held thy mind in thrall 
To see in that gay Haram's glowing maids 
A sainted colony for Eden's shades ; 
Or dream that he, — of whose unholy flame 
Thou wert too soon the victim, — shining 

came 
From Paradise, to people its pure sphere 
With soul* like thine, which he hath ruin'd 

here! 
No — had not reason's light totally set, 
And left thee dark, thou hadst an amulet 
In the loved image, graven on thy heart, 
Which would have saved thee from the 

tempter's art, 
And kept alive, in all its bloom of breath, 
That Durity, whose fading is love's death ! — 
But lost, inflamed, — a restless zeal took 

place 
Of the mild virgin's still and feminine 

grace ; — 
First of the Prophet's favorites, proudly first 
In zeal and charms, — too well the Impostor 

nursed 
Her soul's delirium, in whose active flame, 
Thus lighting up a young, luxuriant frame, 
He saw more potent sorceries to bind 
To his dark yoke the spirits of mankind, 
More subtle chains than hell itself e'er 

twined, 
No art was spared, no witchery ; — all the 

skill 
His demons taught him was employ'd to fill 
Her mind with gloom and ecstasy by turns — 
That gloom, through which frenzy but 

fiercer burns ; 



That ecstasy, which from the depth of sad- 
ness 

Glares like the maniac's moon, whose 'light 
is madness ! 

'Twas from a brilliant banquet, where xha 

sound 
Of poesy and music breathed around, 
Together picturing to her mind and ear 
The glories of that heaven, her destined 

sphere, 
Where all was pure, where every stain that 

lay 
Upon the spirit's light should pass away, 
And, realizing more than youthful love 
E'er wish'd or dream'd, she should forever 

rove 
Through fields of fragrance by her Azim's 

side, 
His own bless'd, purified, eternal bride ! — 
'Twas from a scene, a witching trance like 

this, 
He hurried her away, yet breathing bliss, 
To the dim charnel house ; — through all its 

streams 
Of damp and death, led only by those gleams 
Which foul corruption lights, as with design 
To show the gay and proud she too can 

shine ! — 
And, passing on through upright ranks of 

dead, 
Which to the maiden, doubly crazed by 

dread, 
Seem'd, through the bluish death-light round 

them cast, 
To move their lips in mutterings as she 

pass'd — 
There, in that awful place, when each had 

quaff 'd 
And pledged in silence such a fearful 

draught, 
Such — oh ! the look and taste of that red ' 

bowl 
Will haunt her till she dies — he bound her 

soul 
By a dark oath, in hell's own language 

framed, 
Never, while earth his mystic presence 

claim'd, 
While the blue arch of day hung o'er them 

both. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



77 



Never, by that all-imprecating oath, 
In joy or sorrow from his aide to sever. 
She swore, and the wide charnel echo'd, 
" Never, never J" 

From that dread hour, entirely, wildly 

given 
To him and — she believed, lost maid ! — to 

Heaven ; 
Her brain, her heart, her passions all in- 
flamed, 
How proud she stood, when in full Haram 

named 
The Priestess of the Faith ! — how flash'd her 

eyes 
With light, alas ! that was not of the skies, 
When round in trances only less than hers, 
She saw the Haram kneel, her prostrate 

worshippers ! 
Well might Mokanna think that form alone 
Had spells enough to make the world his 

own : — 
Light, lovely limbs, to which the spirit's 

play 
Gave motion, airy as the dancing spray, 
When from its stem the small bird wings 

away ! 
Lips in whose rosy labyrinth, when she 

smiled, 
The soul was lost; and blushes, swift and 

wild 
As are the momentary meteors sent 
Across the uncalm, but beauteous firmament. 
And then her look ! — oh ! where's the heart 

so wise, 
Could unbewilder'd meet those matchless 

eyts? 
Quick, restless, strange, but exquisite withal, 
Like those of angels, just before their fall ; 
Now shadow'd with the shames of earth — 

now crost 
By glimpses of the heaven her heart had 

lost; 
In every glance there broke, without con- 
trol, 
The flashes of a bright but troubled soul, 
Where sensibility still wildly play'd, 
Like lightning, round the ruins it had made ! 

And such was now young Zelica — so 
changed 



From her who, some years since, delighted 

ranged 
The almond groves that shade Bokhara's tide. 
All life and bliss, with Azim by her side '. 
So altered was she now, this festal day, 
When, 'mid the proud Divan's dazzling 

array, 
The vision of that youth, whom she had 

loved, 
And wept as dead, before her breathed and 

moved ; — 
When — bright, she thought, as if from 

Eden's track 
But half-way trodden, he had wander'd back 
Again to earth, glistening with Eden's 

light— 
Her beauteous Azim shone before her sight. 

Oh, Reason ! wh< shall say what spells 

renew, 
When least we look for it, thy broken clew ! 
Through what small vistas o'er the darken'd 

brain 
Thy intellectual day-beam bursts again ; 
And how, like forts, to which beleaguerers win 
Unhoped-for entrance through some friend 

within, 
One clear idea, waken'd in the breast 
By memory's magic, lets in all the rest ! 
Would it were thus, unhappy girl, with 

thee! 
But though light came, it came but par- 
tially ; 
Enough to show the maze in which thy 

sense 
Wander'd about, — but not to guide it 

thence ; 
Enough to glimmer o'er the yawning wave, 
But not to point the harbor which might 

save. 
Hours of delight and peace, long left behind,, 
With that dear form came rushing o'er her 

mind; 
But oh ! to think how deep her soul had 

gone 
In shame and falsehood since those moments 

shone ; 
And, then, her oath — there madness lay 

again, 
And shuddering, back she sunk into hei 

chain 



POEMS OF TnOMAS MOORE. 



Of mental darkness, as if blest to flee 
From light, whose every glimpse was agony ! 
Yet, one relief this glance of former years 
Brought, mingled with its pain, — tears, 

floods of tears, 
Long frozen at her heart, but now like rills 
Let loose in spring-time from tbe snowy 

hills, 
And gushing warm, after a sleep of frost, 
Through valleys where their flow had long 

been lost ! 

Sad and subdued, for the first time her 

frame 
Trembled with horror, when the summons 

came 
(A summons proud and rare, which all but 

she, 
And she till now, had heard with ecstasy) 
To meet Mokanna at his place of prayer, 
A garden oratory, cool and fair, 
By the stream's side, where still at close of 

day 
The Prophet of the Veil retired to pray ; 
Sometimes alone — but oftener far with one, 
One chosen nymph to share his orison. 

Of late none found such favor in his sight 
As the young Priestess ; and though since 

that night 
When the death-caverns echo'd every tone 
Of the dire oath that made her all his own, 
The Impostor, sure of his infatuate prize, 
Had more than once thrown off his soul's 

disguise, 
And utter'd such unheavenly, monstrous 

things 
As even across the desperate wanderings 
Of a weak intellect, whose lamp was out, 
Threw startling shadows of dismay and 

doubt ; 
Yet zeal, ambition, her tremendous vow, 
The thought still haunting her of that bright 

brow 
Whose blaze, as yet from mortal eye con- 

ceal'd, 
Would soon, proud triumph ! be to her re- 

veal'd, 
To her alone ;-?-and then the hope, most 

dear, 
Most wild of all, that her transgression here 



Was but a passage through earth's grosser 

fire, 
From which the spirit wonld at last aspire, 
Even purer than before, — as perfumes rise 
Through flame and smoke, most welcome to 

the skies — 
And that when Azim's fond, divine embraco 
Should circle her in heaven, no darkening 

trace 
Would on that bosom he once loved remain, 
But all be bright, be pure, be his again : — 
These were the wildering dreams, whose 

curst deceit 
Had chain'd her soul beneath the tempter's 

feet, 
And made her think even damning falsehood 

sweet. 
But now that shape, which had appall'd her 

view, 
That semblance — oh, how terrible, if true ! — 
Which came across her frenzy's full career 
With shock of consciousness, cold, deep, 

severe, 
As when, in northern seas, at midnight dark, 
An isle of ice encounters some swift bark, 
And, startling all its wretches from their 

sleep, 
By one cold impulse hurls them to the 

deep ; — 
So came that shock not frenzy's self could 

bear, 
And waking up each long-lull'd image there, 
But check'd her headlong soul, to sink it in 

despair ! 

Wan and dejected, through the evening 

dusk, 
She now went slowly to that small kiosk, 
Where, pondering alone his impious schemes, 
Mokanna waited her — too wrapt in dreams 
Of the fair-ripening future's rich success 
To heed the sorrow, pale and spiritless, 
That sat upon his victim's downcast brow, 
Or mark how slow her step, how alter'd now 
From the quick, ardent Priestess, whose 

light bound 
Came like a spirit o'er the unechoing 

ground, — 
From that wild Zelica, whose every glance 
Was thrilling fire, whose very thought * 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Upon his couch the veil'd Mokanna lay. 
While lamps around — not such as lend their 

ray, 
Glimmering and cold, to those who nightly 

pray 
In holy Koom,' or Mecca's dim arcades, 
But brilliant, soft, such lights as lovely 

maids 
Look loveliest in — shed their luxurious glow 
Upon his mystic veil's white glittering 

flow. 
Beside him, 'stead of beads and books of 

prayer, 
Which the world fondly thought he mused 

on there, 
Stood vases, fill'd with KishmeeV golden 

wine, 
And the red weepings of the Shiraz vine ; 
Of which his curtain'd lips full many a 

draught 
Took zealously, as if each drop they 

quaff 'd, 
Like Zemzem's Spring of Holiness,' had 

' power 
To freshen the soul's virtues into flower ! 
And still he drank and ponder'd — nor could 

see 
The approaching maid, so deep his reverie ; 
,\t length, with fiendish laugh, like that 

which broke 
From Eblis at the fall of man, he spoke : — 
"Yes, ye vile race, for hell's amusement 

given, 
Too mean for earth, yet claiming kin with 

heaven ; 
God's images, forsooth* — such gods as he 
Whom India serves, the monkey deity ;* 
Fe creatures of a breath, proud things of 

clay, 
To whom if Lucifer, as grandams say, 



1 " The cities of Com (or Koom) and Kashan are fall of 
mosques, mausoleums, and sepulchres of the descendants of 
AH, the saints of Persia." 

' An iBland in the Persian Gulf, celebrated for its white wine. 

" " The miraculous well at Mecca ; so called from the mur- 
muring of its waters." 

4 The good Hannaman. 

" Apes are in many parts of India highly venerated, out of 
respect to the god Hannaman, a deity partaking of the form 
of that race."— Pennant's Sindostan. 

See a curious account in Stephen's Persia of a solemn em- 
bassy from some part of the Indies to Goa, when the Portu- 
gese were there, offering vast treasures for the recovery of a 
monkey's tooth, which they held in great veneration, and 
which had been taken away upon the conquest of the kingdom 



Refused, though at the forfeit of heaven's 

light, 
To bend in worship, Lucifer was right !* — 
Soon shall I plant this foot upon the neck 
Of your foul race, and without fear or check, 
Luxuriating in hate, avenge my shame, 
My deep-felt, long-nurst loathing of man's 

name ! — 
Soon, at the head of myriads, blind and 

fierce 
As hooded falcons, through the universe 
I'll sweep my darkening, desolating way, 
Weak man my instrument, curst man my 

prey ! 

" Ye wise, ye learn'd, who grope your dull 

way on 
By the dim twinkling gleams of ages gone, 
Like superstitious thieves, who think the 

light 
From dead men's marrow guides them best 

at night" — 
Ye shall have honors — wealth, — yes, sages, 

yes — 
I know, grave fools, your wisdom's nothing- 
ness; 
Undazzled it can track yon starry spuere, 
But a gilt stick, a bauble blinds it here. 
How I shall laugh, when trumpeted along 
In lying speech, and still more lying song, 
By these learn'd slaves, the meanest of the 

throng ; 
Their wits bought up, their wisdom shrunk 

so small, 
A sceptre's puny point can wield it all ! 

" Ye too, believers of incredible creeds, 
Whose faith enshrines the monsters which it 



* This resolution of Eblis not to acknowledge the new crea- 
ture man, was, according to Mohammedan tradition, thus 
adopted :— " The earth (which God had selected for the mate- 
rials of His work) was carried into Arabia, to a place between 
Mecca and Tayef, where, being. first kneeded by the angels, it 
was afterward fashioned by God himself into a human form, 
and left to dry for the space of forty days, or, as others say, as 
many years ; the angels in the mean time often visiting it, and 
Eblis (then one of the angels nearest to God's presence, after- 
ward the devil) amoDg the rest ; but he, not contented with 
looking at it, kicked it with his foot till it rung, and knowing 
God designed that creature to be his superior, took a secret 
resolution never to acknowledge him as such." — Sate on the 
Koran. 

' A kind of lantern formerly used by robbers, ca.led the 
Hand of Glory, the candle tor which was made of the fat of I 
dead malefactor. 



80 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Who, bolder even than Nimrod, think to 

rise, 
By nonsense heap'd on nonsense, to the 

skies ; 
Ye shall have miracles, ay, sound ones too, 
Seen, heard, attested, everything — but true. 
Your preaching zealots, too inspired to seek 
One grace of meaning for the things they 

speak ; 
Your martyrs, ready to shed out their blood 
For truths too heavenly to be understood ; 
And your state priests, sole vendors of the 

lore 
That works salvation ; — as on Ava's shore, 
Where none but priests are privileged to 

trade 
In that best marble of which gods are 

made ;' — 
They shall have mysteries — ay, precious 

stuff 
For knaves to thrive by — mysterious 

enough ; 
Dark, tangled doctrines, dark as fraud can 

weave, 
Which simple votaries shall on trust receive, 
While craftier feign belief, till they believe. 
A heaven too ye must have, ye lords of 

dust, — 
A splendid Paradise,— pure souls, ye must : 
That prophet ill sustains his holy call 
Who finds not heavens to suit the tastes of 

all; 
Houris for boys, omniscience for sages, 
And wings and glories for all ranks and ages. 
Vain things ! — as lust or vanity inspires, 
The heaven of each is but what each desires, 
And, soul or sense, whate ; er the object be, 
Man would be man to all eternity ! 
So let him — Eblis ! grant this crowning curse, 
But keep him what he is, no hell were 

w orse." — 

" Oh, my lost soul !" exclaim'd the shud- 
dering maid, 
Whose ears had drunk like poison all he 

said, — 
Mokanna started — not abash'd, afraid, — 



1 The material of which images of Guadma (the Binnan 
deity) i» made, is held sacred. "Birmans may not purchase 
the marble in mass, bat are suffered, and indeed encouraged, 
lo bay figures of the deity ready made."— Syme's Ava, vol. ii., 
1.176. 



He knew no more of fear than one who 

dwells 
Beneath the tropics knows of icicles ! 
But in those dismal words that reach'd his 

ear, 
" Oh, my lost soul !" there was a sound so 

drear, 
So like that voice, among the sinful dead, 
In which the legend o'er hell's gate is read, 
That, new as 'twas from her, whom naught 

could dim 
Or sink till now, it startled even him. 

"Ha, my fair Priestess!" — thas, wich 

ready wile, 
The impostor turn'd to greet her— "thou 

whose smile 
Hath inspiration in its rosy beam 
Beyond the enthusiast's hope or prophet's 

dream ! 
Light of the Faith ! wbo twin'st religion's 

zeal 
So close with lovo'fi, men know net which 

they fee', 
Nor which to s~gh for, in their trance of 

heart. 
The heaven thou preache^t cr the heaven 

thou art ! 
What should I be without thee ? without 

thee 
How dull were power, how joyless victory ! 
Though borne by angels, if that smile of 

thine 
Bless'd not my banner, 'twere but half 

divine. 
But — why so mournfnl, child ? those eyes 

that shone 
All life last night — what ! — is their glory 

gone ? 
Come, come — this morn's fatigue hath made 

them pale, 
They want rekindling — suns themselves 

would fail, 
Did not their comets bring, as I to thee, 
From light's own fount supplies of brilliancy ! 
Thou seest this cup — no juice of earth is 

here, 
But the pure waters of that upper sphere, 
Whose rills o'er ruby beds and topaz flow, 
Catching the gems' bright color as they go. 
Nightly my genii come and fill these uran — 






POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Nay, drink — in every drop life's essence 

burns ; 
Twill make that soul all fire, those eyes all 

bright — 
Come, come, I want thy loveliest smiles to- 
night : 
There is a youth — why start ? — thou sawst 

him then ; 
Look'd he not nobly ? such the godlike men 
Thou'lt have to -ttoo thee in the bowers 

above ; — 
Though he, I fear, hath thoughts too stern 

for love, 
Too ruled by that cold enemy of bliss 
The world calls Virtue — we must conquer 

this ; — 
Nay, shrink not, pretty sage; 'tis not for 

thee 
To scan the mazes of heaven's mystery. 
The steel must pass through fire, ere it can 

yield 
Fit instruments for mighty hands to wield. 
This very night I mean to try the art 
Of powerful beauty on that warrior's heart ; 
All that my Haram boasts of bloom and wit, 
Of skill and charms, most rare and exquisite, 
Shall tempt the boy ; — young Mirzala's blue 

eyes, 
Whose sleepy lid like snow on violet lies ; 
Arouya's cheeks, warm as a spring-day sun, 
And lips that, like the seal of Solomon, 
Have magic in their pressure ; Zeba's lute, 
And Lilla's dancing feet, that gleam and 

shoot 
Rapid and white as sea-birds o'er the 

deep ! — 
All shall combine their witching powers to 

steep 
My convert's spirit in that softening trance, 
From which to heaven is but the next 

advance; — 
That glowing, yielding fusion of the breast 
On which Religion stamps her image best. 
But hear me, Priestess! — though each 

nymph of these 
Hath some peculiar, practised power to 

please, 
Some glance or step which, at the mirror 

tried, 
First charms herself, then all the world 

beside ; 



There still wants one, to make the victory 

sure, 
One, who in every look joins every lure ; 
Through whom all beauty's beams concen 

tred pass, 
Dazzling and rich, as through love's 

burning-glass ; 
Whose gentle lips persuade without a word, 
Whose words, even when unmeaning, are 

adored, 
Like inarticulate breathings from a shrine, 
Which our faith takes for granted are 

divine ! 
Such is the nymph we want, all warmth and 

light, 
To crown the rich temptations of to-night T 
Such the refined enchantress that must be 
This hero's vanquisher, — and thou art she!"' 

With her hands clasp'd, her lips apart and 
pale, 

The maid had stood, gazing upon the veil 

From which these words, like south-winds 
through a fence 

Of Kerzrah flowers, came fill'd with pesti- 
lence :' 

So boldly utter'd to* ! as if all dread 

Of frowns from her, of virtuous frowns, 
were fled, 

And the wretch felt assured that, once 
plunged in, 

Her woman's soul would know no pause in 



At first, though mute she listen'd, like a 

dream 
Seem'd all he said ; nor could her mind, 

whose beam 
As yet was weak, penetrate half his scheme. 
But when, at length, he utter'd, "Thou art 

she !" 
All flash'd at once, and shrieking piteously, 
"Oh, not for worlds!" she cried — "Great 

God ! to whom 
I once knelt innocent, is this my doom ? 
Are all my dreams, my hopes of heavenly 

bliss, 
My purity, my pride, then come to this, — 



1 " It is commonly said in Persia, that if a man breatk" In 
the hot south wind, which in June or July passes ov«* *M 
flower, (the Kcrzereh,) it will kill him." 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



I 



To live the wanton of a fiend ! to be 
The pander of his guilt — oh, infamy ! 
And, sunk myself as low as hell can steep 
In its hot flood, drag others down as deep ! 
Others ? — ha ! yes — that youth who came 

to day — 
Not him I loved — not him — oh ! do but say, 
But swear to me this moment 'tis not he, 
And I will serve, dark fiend ! — will worship, 



*' Beware, young raving thing ! — in time, 

beware, 
Nor utter what I cannot, must nor bear 
Even from thy lips. Go — try thy lute, thy 

voice, 
The boy must feel their magic — I rejoice 
To see those fires, no matter whence they 

rise, 
Once more illuming my fair Priestess' eyes ; 
And should the youth, whom soon those 

eyes shall warm, 
Indeed resemble thy dead lover's form, 
So much the happier wilt thou find thy 

doom, 
-As one warm lover, full of life and bloom, 
1 Excels ten thousand cold ones in the tomb. 
Nay, nay, no frowning, sweet ! — those eyes 

were made 
For love, not anger — I must be obey'd." 

" Obey'd ! — 'tis well — yes, I deserve it 

all— 
On me, on me Heaven's vengeance cannot fall 
Too heavily — but Azim, brave and true 
And beautiful — must he be ruin'd loo ? 
Must he too, glorious as he is, be driven 
A renegade like me from love and heaven ? 
Like me ? — weak wretch, I wrong him — not 

like me ; 
No — he's all truth and strength and purity ! 
Fill up your maddening hell-cup to the 

brim, 
Its witchery, fiend, will have no charm for 

him. 
Let loose youi glowing wantons from their 

bowers, 
He loves, he loves, and can defy their 

powers ! 
Wretch as I am, in his heart still I reign 
iPuie as when first we met, without a stain ! 



Tin 



'd — lost — my memory, like a 



eh;: 



Left by the dead, still keeps his soul from 

harm. 
Oh ! never let him know how deep the brow 
He kiss'd at parting is dishonor'd now — 
Ne'er tell him how debased, how sunk is she 
Whom once he loved — once! — still loves 

dotingly ! 
Thou laughst, tormentor, — what ! — thou'lt 

brand my name ? 
Do, do — in vain — he'll not believe my 

shame — 
He thinks me true, that naught beneath 

God's sky 
Could tempt or change me, and so once 

thought I. 
But this is past — though worse than death 

my lot, 
Than hell — 'tis nothing, while he knows it not 
Far off to some benighted land I'll fly, 
Where suubeam ne'er shall enter till I die ; 
Where none will ask the lost one whence she 

came, 
But I may fade and fall without a name ! 
And thou — curst man or fiend, whate'er thou 

art, 
Who foundst this burning plague-spot in my 

heart, 
And spreadst it — oh, so quick ! — through 

soul and frame 
With more than demon's art, till I became 
A loathsome thing, all pestilence, all 



If, when I'm gone " 

" Hold, fearless maniac, holl, 
Nor tempt my rage — by Heaven not half so 

bold 
The puny bird that dares with teasing hum 
Within the crocodile's stretch'd jaws to 

come! 1 
And so thou'lt fly, forsooth ? — what ! — give 

up all 
Thy chaste dominion in the Haram hall, 



1 "The ancient story concerning the Trochilus, or hum 
ming-bird, entering with impunity into the mouth of the cro- 
codile, is firmly believed at Java." 

The humming-bird is said to run this risk for the purpose of 
picking the crocodile's teeth. The same circumstance is re- 
lated of the lapwing, as a fact to which he was witneaa, by 
Pan! Lucas, ( Voyage faite en 1714.) 




"He raised his veil— the Maid tnrn'd 
slowly round, 
Look'd at him— shriek'd — and sunk npoii 
the ground ! 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Where, now to love and now to Alia given, 
Half mistress and half saint, thou hangst as 

even 
As doth Medina's tomb, 'twixt hell and 

heaven ! 
Thou'lt fly ? — as easily may reptiles run 
The gaunt snake once hath fix'd his eyes 

upon; 
As easily, when caught, the prey may be 
Pluck'd from his loving folds, as thou from 

me. 
No, no, 'tis fix'd — let good or ill betide, 
Thou'rt mine till death — till death Mokan- 

na's bride ! 
Hast thou forgot thy oath ?"— 

At this dread word, 
The maid — whose spirit his rude taunts had 

stirr'd 
Through all its depths, and roused an anger 

there 
That burst and lighten'd even through her 

despair — 
Shrunk back, as if a blight were in the 

breath 
That spoke tkat word, and stagger'd, pale as 

death. 

" Yes, my sworn Bride, let others seek in 

bowers 
Their bridal place — the charnel vault was 

ours! 
Instead of scents and balms, for thee and me 
Rose the rich steams of sweet mortality ; — 
Gay, flickering death-lights shone while we 

were wed, 
And, for our guests, a row of goodly dead 
(Immortal spirits in their time no doubt) 
From reeking shrouds upon the rite look'd 

out ! 
That oath thou heardst more lips than thine 

repeat — 
That cup — thou shudderest lady — was it 

sweet ? 
That cup we pledged, the charnel's choicest 

wine, 
Hath bound thee — ay — body and soul all 

mine; 
Bound thee by chains that, whether blest or 

curst 
No matter now, not hell itself shall burst ! 



Hence, woman, to the Haram, and look gay, 
Look wild, look — anything but sad; yet 

stay — 
One moment more — from what this night 

hath pass'd, 
I see thou knowst me, knowst me well at last. 
Ha ! ha ! and so, fond thing, thou thoughtst 

all true, 
And that I love mankind ! — I do, I do — 
As victims, love them ; as the sea-dog doats 
Upon the small, sweet fry that round him 

floats ; 
Or as the Nile-bird loves the slime that 

gives 
That rank and venomous food on which she 

lives ! — 

"And now thou seest my soul's angelio 

hue, 
'Tis time these features were uncurtain'd 

too ; — 
This brow, whose light — oh, rare celestial 

light ! 
Hath been reserved to bless thy favor'd 

sight ; 
These dazzling eyes, before whose shrouded 

might 
Thou'st seen immortal man kneel down and 

quake — 
Would that they were Heaven's lightnings 

for his sake ! 
But turn and look — then wonder, if thou 

wilt, 
That I should hate, should take revenge, by 

guilt, 
Upon the hand whose mischief or whose 

mirth 
Sent me thus maim'd and monstrous upon 

earth ; 
And on that race who, though more vile 

they be 
Than mowing apes, are demigods to me ! 
Here — judge if hell, with all its power to 

damn, 
Can add one curse to the foul thing ] 

am !"— 

" He raised his veil — the Maid turn'd 
slowly round, 
Look'd at him — shriek'd — and sunk upon 
the ground ! 



Si 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOOKE. 



On their arrival, next night, at the place 
of encampment, they were surprised and de- 
lighted to find the groves all round illumi- 
nated; some artists of Tamtcheou having 
been sent on previously for the purpose. 1 
Oi. each side of the green alley, which led 
to the Royal Pavilion, artificial sceneries of 
bamboo-work were erected, representing 
arches, minarets, and towers, from which 
hung thousands oi silken lanterns, painted 
by the most delicate pencils of Canton. 
Nothing could be more beautiful than the 
leaves of the mango-trees and acacias, shin- 
ing in the light of the bamboo scenery, 
which shed a lustre round as soft as that of 
the nights of Periston. 

Lalla Rookh, however, who was too much 
occupied by the sad story of Zelica and her 
lover, to give a thought to anything else, 
except, perhaps, to him who related it, 
hurried on through this scene of splendor to 
her pavilion, — greatly to the mortification 
of the poor artists of Yamtcheou, — and was 
followed with equal rapidity by the Great 
Chamberlain, cursing, as he went, that 
ancient Mandarin, whose parental anxiety 
in lighting up the shores of the lake, where 
his beloved daughter had wandered and 
been lost, was the origin of these fantastic 
Chinese illuminations. 1 ' 

Without a moment's delay young 
Feramorz was introduced, and Fadladeen, 
who could never make up his mind as to the 
merits of a poet, till he knew the religious 
sect to which he belonged, was about to ask 
him whether he was a Shia or a Sooni, when 
Lalla Rookh impatiently clapped her hands 
for silence, and the youth, being seated upon 
the musnud near her, proceeded : — 

Prepare tny sc-.U, foung Azim ! — thou hast 
braved 



1 " The Feast of Lanterns is celebrated at Yamtcheoa with 
more magnificence than anywhere else."— Present State <tf 
Uliina. p. 156. 

s " The vulgar ascribe it to an accident that happened in 
the family of a famous mandarin, whose daughter walking 
one evening upon the shore of a lake, fell in and was 
drowned; the afflicted father, with his family, ran thither, 
and, the better to find her. caused a great company of lanterns 
to be lighted. All the inhabitants of the place throneed after 
him with torches. The year ensuing they made fires upon 
the shores the same day ; they continued the ceremony every 
year, every one lighted his lantern, and by degrees it com- 
menced into a custom."— Present State <tf China. 



The bands of Greece, still mighty though 

enslaved ; 
Hast faced her phalanx, arm'd with all its 

fame, 
Her Macedonian pikes and globes of flame ; 
All this hast fronted with firm heart and 

brow, 
But a more perilous trial waits thee now, — 
Woman's bright eyes, a dazzling host of 

eyes 
From every land where woman smiles oi 

sighs ; 
Of every hue, as Love may chance to raise 
His black or azure banner in their blaze ; 
And each sweet mode of warfare, from the 

flash 
That lightens boldly through the shadowy 

lash, 
To the sly, stealing splendors, almost hid, 
Like swords half-sheathed, beneath the 

downcast lid. 
Such, Azim, is the lovely, luminous host 
Now led against thee; and let conquerors 

boast 
Their fields of fame, he who in virtue arms 
A young, warm spirit against beauty's 

charms, 
Who feels her brightness, yet defies her 

thrall, 
Is the best, bravest conqueror of them all. 

Now, through the Haram chambers mov- 
ing lights 
And busy shapes proclaim the toilet's 

rites ; — 
From room to room the ready handmaids 

hie, 
Some skill'd to wreathe the turban tastefully, 
Or hang the veil, in negligence of shade, 
O'er the warm blushes of the youthful maid, 
Who, if between the folds hut one eye shone 
Like Seba's Queen, o^ald vanquish witt 

that one .' — 
While some bring leaves of iienna, to imbue 
The fingers' ends with a bright roseate hue, 4 
So bright, that in the mirror's depth they 

seem 
Like tips of coral branches in the stream ; 

" " Thou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes/'— 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



And others mix the kohol's jetty dye, 1 

To give that long dark languish to the eye, 3 

Which makes the maids, whom kings are 

proud to cull 
From fair Circassia's vales, so beautiful ! 

All is in motion ; rings and plumes and 

pearls 
Are shining everywhere: — some younger 

girls 
Are gone by moonlight to the garden beds, 
To gather fresh, cool chaplets for their 

heads ; 
Gay creatures ! sweet, though mournful, 'tis 

to see 
How each prefers a garland from that tree 
Which brings to mind her childhood's 

innocent day, 
And the dear fields and friendships far away. 
The maid of India, blest again to hold 
In her full lap the champac's leaves of gold, 3 
Thinks of the time when by the Ganges' 

flood, 
Her little playmates scatter'd many a bud 
Upon her long black hair, with glossy gleam 
Just dripping from the consecrated stream ; 
While the young Arab, haunted by the smell 
Of her own mountain flowers, as by a spell — 
The sweet elcaya, 4 and that courteous tree 
Which bows to all who seek its canopy' — 
Sees, call'd up round her by these magic 

scents, 
The well, the camels, and her father's tents ; 
Sighs for the home she left with little pain, 
And wishes even its sorrows back ao-ain ' 



' "None of these ladies," says Shaw, "take themselves to 
be completely dressed, till they have tinged the hair and 
edges of their eyelids with the powder of lead-ore. Now, 
aB this operation is performed by dipping first into the 
powder a small wooden bodkin of the thickness of a quill, 
and then drawing it afterward through the eyelids over the 
ball of tlTe eye, we shall have a lively image of what the 
Prophet (Jer. iv. 30) may be supposed to mean by renting 
the eyes with painting. This practice-is no doabt of great 
■antiquity; for besides the instance already taken notice of, 
we find that where Jezebel is said (2 Kings ix. 30) to have 
.paintid her face, the original words are, she adjusted her eyes 
with the powder of lead-ore."— Shaw's Travels. 

> " The women blacken the inside of their eyelids with a 
powder named the black kohol." 

» " The appearance of the blossoms of the gold-colored cam- 
ipac in the black hair of the Indian women has supplied the 
Sanscrit poets with many elegant allusions. " 

* " A tree famous for its perfume, and common on the hills 
cf Yemen." 

• " Of the genns mimosa, which droops its branches when- 
tver any person approaches it, seeming as if it salted those 
who retire under ita shade." 



Meanwhile, through vast illuminated halls, 
Silent and. bright, where nothing but the falli 
Of fragrant waters, gushing with cool sound 
From many ajasper fount, is heard around, 
Young Azim roams bewilder'd, — nor can 

guess 
What means this maze of light and loneli- 
ness. 
Here the way leads o'er tessellated floors 
Or mats of Cairo, through long corridors, 
Where, ranged in cassolets and silver urns, 
Sweet wood of aloe or of sandal burns ; 
And spicy rods, such as illume at night 
The bowers of Tibet,* send forth odorous light, 
Like Peris' wands, when pointing out the 

road 
For some pure spirit to its blest abode ! — 
And here, at once, the glittering saloon 
Bursts on his sight, boundless and bright as 

noon ; 
Where, in the midst, reflecting back the rays 
In broken rainbows, a fresh fountain plays 
High as the enamell'd cupola, which towers 
All rich with Arabesques of gold and flcver?: 
And the mosaic floor beneath shines through 
The sprinkling of that fountain's silvery dew, 
Like the wet, glistening shells of every dye 
That on the margin of the Red Sea lie. 

Here too he traces the kind visitings 
Of woman's love, in those fair, living things 
Of land and wave, whose fate — -in bondage 

thrown 
For their weak loveliness — is like her own ! 
On one side gleaming with a sudden grace 
Through water, brilliant as the crystal vase 
In which it undulates, small fishes shine, 
Like golden ingots from a fairy mine, — 
While on the other, latticed lightly in . 
With odoriferous woods of Comorin,* 
Each brilliant bird that wings the air is 

seen ; — 
Gay, sparkling loories, such as gleam 

between 
The crimson blossoms of the coral tree 
In the warm isles of India's sunny sea ; 



'Cloves are a principal ingredient in the compositio 
>erfumed rods which men of rank keep constantly bur 



Oud Comari, 



r presence." 

"est d'oii vient le bois d'aloes, que les Arabes appellent 
"'■" du sandal, qui s'y tronve en grand 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Mecca's blue sacred pigeon, 1 and the thrush 
Of Hindostan, 9 whose holy warblings gush 
At evening from the tall pagoda's top ; — ■ 
Those golden birds that, in the spice-time, 

drop 
About the gardens, drunk with that sweet 

food' 
Whose scent hath lured them o'er the sum- 
mer flood, 4 
And those that under Araby's soft sun 
Build their high nests of budding cin- 
namon ; — 
In short, all rare and beauteous things that fly 
Through the pure element here calmly lie 
Sleeping in light, like the green birds" that 

dwell 
In Eden's radiant fields of asphodel ! 

So on, through scenes past all imagining — 
More like the luxuries of that impious king, 5 
Whom Death's dark Angel, with his light- 
ning torch, 
Struck down and blasted even in Pleasure's 

porch, 
Than the pure dwelling of a Prophet sent 
Arm'd with Heaven's sword for man's en- 
franchisement — 
Young Azim wander'd, looking sternly 

round, 
His simple garb and war-boots' clanking 

sound 
But ill according with the pomp and grace 
And silent lull of that voluptuous place ! 

"Is this then," thought the youth, "is 
this the way 
To free man's spirit from the deadening sway 
Of worldly sloth; — to teach him, while he 

lives. 



' "In Mecca theie are quantities of blue pigeons, which 
none will affright or abuse, much less kill." 

3 " The pagoda thrush is esteemed among the first choristers 
of India. It sits perched on the sacred pagodas, and from 
thence delivers its melodious song." 

s Tavernier adds, that while the Birds of Paradise lie in 
this intoxicated state, the emmets come and eat off their 
legs ; and that hence it is they are said to have no feet. 

• Birds of Paradise, which at the nutmeg season, come in 
flights from the southern isles to India, and "the strength 
of the nutmeg bo intoxicates them that Iney fall dead drunk 
to the earth." 

• " The spirits of the martyrs will be lodged in the crops 
of green birds."— Gibbon, vol. ix., p. 421. 

• Shedad, who made the delicious gardens of Irim, In 
Saltation of Paradise, and was destroyed by lightning the first 
tmt he attempted to enter them. 



To know no bliss but that which virtue gives 
And when he dies, to leave his lofty name 
A light, a landmark on the cliffs of fame ? 
It was not so, land of the generous thought 
And daring deed ! thy godlike sages taught 
It was not thus, in bowers of wanton ease, 
Thy freedom nursed her sacred energies ; 
Oh ! not beneath the enfeebling, withering 

glow 
Of such dull luxury did those myrtles grow 
With which she wreathed her sword, wheD 

she would dare 
Immortal deeds ; but in the bracing air 
Of toil, — of temperance, — of that high, rare, 
Ethereal virtue, which alone can breathe 
Life, health, and lustre into Freedom's 

wreath ! 
Who, that surveys this span of earth we 

press, 
This speck of life in time's great wilderness, 
This narrow isthmus 'twixt two boundless 

seas, 
The past, the future, two eternities, 
Would sully the bright spot or leave it bare, 
When he might build him a proud temple 

there, 
A name that long shall hallow all its space, 
And be each purer soul's high resting-place ! 
But no — it cannot be that one whom God 
Has sent to break the wizard Falsehood's 

rod, — 
A Prophet of the Truth, whose mission draws 
Its rights from Heaven, should thus profane 

his cause 
With the world's vulgar pomp ; — no, no— T 

see — 
tie thinks me weak — this glare of luxury 
Is but to tempt, to try the eaglet gaze 
Of my young soul : — shine on, 'twill stand 

the blaze !" 

So thought the youth ; — but even while 
he defied 
This witching scene, he felt its witchery 

glide 
Through every sense. The perfume, breath- 
ing round 
Like a pervading spirit ; — the still sound 
Of falling waters, lulling as the song 
Of Indian bees at sunset, when they throng 
Around the fragrant nilica, and deen 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



In its blue blossoms hum themselves to sleep !' 
And music too— dear music ! that can touch 
Beyond all else the soul that loves it much — 
Now heard far off, so far as but to seem 
Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream ; — 
All was too much for him, too full of bliss, 
The heart could nothing feel that felt not 

this; 
Soften'd he sunk upon a couch, and gave 
His soul up to sweet thoughts, like wave on 

wave 
Succeeding in smooth seas, when storms are 

laid ;— 
He thought of Zelica, his own dear maid, 
And of the time when, full of blissful sighs, 
They sat and look'd into each other's eyes, 
Silent and happy — as if God had given 
Naught else worth looking at on this side 

heaven ! 

" Oh, my loved mistress ! whose enchant- 
ments still 
Are with me, round me, wander where I 

will- 
It is for thee, for thee alone I seek 
The paths of glory — to light up thy cheek 
With warm approval—in that gentle look 
To read my praise as in an angel's book, 
And think all toils rewarded, when from thee 
I gain a smile, worth immortality ! 
How shall I bear the moment when restored 
To that young heart where I alone am lord, 
Though of such bliss unworthy, — since the 

best 
Alone deserve to be the happiest ! — 
When from those lips, unbreathed upon for 

years, 
I shall again kiss off the soul-felt tears, 
And find those tears warm as when last they 

started, 
Those sacred kisses pure as when we parted ! 
Oh, my own life ! — why should a single day 
A moment keep me from those arms away ?" 

While thus he thinks, still nearer on the 



Come those delicious, dream-like harmonies, 
Each note of which but adds new, downy links 



• " My pundits assure me that the plant before us (the nili- 
») la their eephalica, thuB named because the bees are snp- 
OHd to sleep on its blossoms."— Sir W. Janes. 



To the soft chain in which his spirit sinks. 
He turns him toward the sound, and, far 

away 
Through a long vista, sparkling with the plky 
Of countless lamps, — like the rich track 

which day 
Leaves on the waters, when he sinks from us ; 
So long the path, its light so tremulous : 
He sees a group of female forms advance, 
Some chain'd together in the mazy dance 
By fetters, forged in the green sunny bowerS; 
As they were captives to the King of 

Flowers ;' — 
And some disporting round, unlink'd and 

free, 
Who seem'd to mock their sisters' slavery, 
And round and round them still, in wheeling 

flight 
Went, like gay moths about a lamp at night ; 
While others walk'd, as gracefully along 
Their feet kept time, the very soul of song 
From psaltery, pipe, and lutes of heavenly 

thrill, 
Or their own youthful voices, heavenlier still ! 
And now they come, now pass before his eye, 
Forms such as Nature moulds when she 

would vie 
With Fancy's pencil, and give birth to things 
Lovely beyond its fairest picturings ! 
A while they dance before him, then divide, 
Breaking, like rosy clouds at eventide 
Around the rich pavilion of the sun, — 
Till silently dispersing, one by one, 
Through many a path that from the chamber 

leads 
To gardens, terraces, and moonlight meads, 
Their distant laughter comes upon the wind, 
And but one trembling nymph remains 

behind, — 
Beck'ning them back in vain, for they are 

gone, 
And she is left in all that light alone ; 
No veil to curtain o'er her beauteous brow, 
In its young bashfulness more beauteous now ; 
But a light, golden chain-work round her hair,* 



3 "They deferred it till the King of FlowerB should ascend 
his throne of enamelled foliage." — Bahardanush. 

s " One of the head-dresses of the Persian women is com- 
posed of a light golden chain- work, set with small pearls, with 
a thin gold plate pendant, about the bigness of a crown-piece, 
on which is impressed an Arabian prayer, and which hang* 
apon the cheek below the eu.*'— Hanway't Tracelt. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Such as the maids of Yezd' and Shirazwear, 
From which, on either side, gracefully hung 
A golden amulet, in the Arab tongue, 
Elgraven o'er with some immortal line 
From holy writ, or bard scarce less divine; 
While her left hand, as shrinkingly she stood, 
Held a small lute of gold and sandal-wood, 
Which, once or twice, she touch'd with 

hurried strain, 
Then took her trembling fingers off again. 
But when at length a timid glance she stole 
At Azim, the sweet gravity of soul 
She saw through all his features calm'd her 

fear, 
And, like a half-tamed antelope, more near, 
Though shrinking still, she came ; — then sat 

her down 
Upon a mnsnudV edge, and, bolder grown, 
In the pathetic mode of Isfahan, 3 
Touch'd a preluding strain, and thus began : — 

" There's a bower of roses by Bendem.eer's 4 
stream, 
And the nightingale sings round it all the 
day long, 
Fa the time of my childhood 'twas like a 
sweet dream, 
To sit in the roses and hear the birds' song. 
That bower and its music I never forget, 
But oft when alone, in the bloom of the 
year, 
I think — Is the nightingale singing there yet ? 
Are the roses still bright by the calm 
Bendemeer ? 

"No, the roses soon wither'd that hung o'er 
the wave, 
But some blossoms were gather'd, while 
freshly they shone, 
And a dew was distill'd from the flowers 
that gave 
All the fragrance of summer when summer 
was a;one. 



i " Certainly the women of Yezd are the handsomest women 
In Persia. The proverb is, that to live happy, a man must 
have a wife of Yezd. eat the bread of Yezdecas, and drink the 
wine of Shiraz." — Tavernier. 

* Mnsnnds are cushior.ed seats reserved for persons of dis- 
tinction. 

* The Persians, like the ancient Greeks, call their musical 
modes or Perdas by the names of different countries or cities, 
M the mode of Isfahan, the mode of Irak, etc. 

* A river which flows near the rains of Chilminir. 



Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies, 

An essence that breathes of it many a year; 

Thus bright to my soul, as 'twas then to my 

eyes, 

Is that bower on the banks of the calm 

Bendemeer?" 

"Poor maiden!" thought the youth, "if 

thou wert sent, 
With thy soft lute and beauty's blaudish- 

ment, 
To wake unholy wishes in this heart, 
Or tempt its truth, thou little knowst the art. 
For though thy lip should sweetly counsel 

wrong, 
Those vestal eyes would disavow its song. 
But thou hast breathed such purity, thy lay 
Returns so fondly to youth's virtuous day, 
And leads thy soul — if e'er it wander'd 

thence — 
So gently back to its first innocence, 
That I would sooner stop the unchain'd dove. 
When swift returning to its home of love, 
And round its snowy wing new fetters twins, 
Than turn from virtue one pure wish of thine !" 

Scarce had this feeling pass'd, when, 

sparkling through 
The gently-open'd curtains of light blue 
That veil'd the breezy casement, countless 

eyes, 
Peeping like stars through the blue eveirng 

skies, 
Look'd laughing in, as if to mock the pair 
That sat so still and melancholy there — 
And now the curtains fly apart, and in 
From the cool air, 'mid showers of jessamine 
Which those without fling after them in play, 
Two lightsome maidens spring, lightsome as 

they 
Who live in the air on odors, and around 
The bright saloon, scarce conscious of the 

ground, 
Chase one another, in a varying dance 
Of mirth and languor, coyness and advance, 
Too eloquently like love's warm pursuit : — 
While she, who sung so gently to the lute 
Her dream of home, steals timidly away, 
j Shrinking as violets do in summer's ray, — 
But takes with her from Azini's ..eart that 

sigh 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



We sometimes give to forms that pass us by- 
En the world's crowd, too lovely to remain, 
Creatures of light we never see again ! 

Around the white necks of the nymphs 

who danced 
Hung carcanets of orient gems, that glanced 
More brilliant than the sea-glass glittering 

o'er 
The hills of crystal on the Caspian shore; 1 
While from their long dark tresses, in a fall 
Of curls descending, bells as musical 
As those that on the golden-shafted trees 
Of Eden shake in the Eternal Breeze,' 
Rung round their steps, at every bound 

more sweet, 
As 'twere the ecstatic language of their feet ! 
At length the chase was o'er, and they stood 

wreathed 
Within each other's arms ; while soft there 

breathed 
Through the cool casement, mingled with 

the sighs 
Of moonlight flowers, music that seem'd to 

rise 
From some still lake, so liquidly it rose ; 
And, as it swell'd again at each faint close, 
The ear could track through all that maze 

of chords 
And young sweet voices, these impassion'd 

words : — 

" A Spirit there is, whose fragrant sigh 
Is burning now through earth and air; 

Where cheeks are blushing, the Spirit is nigh, 
Where lips are meeting, the Spirit is there ! 

" His breath is the soul of flowers like these ; 

And his floating eyes — oh ! they resemble 
Blue water-lilies," when the breeze 

Is making the stream around them tremble ! 

"Hail to thee, hail to thee, kindling power ! 
Spirit of Love, Spirit of Bliss ! 



1 "To the north was a mountain which sparkled iike dia- 
monds, arising from the sea-glass and crystals with which it 
•bounds."— Journey of the Russian Ambassador to Persia, 1746. 

* "To which will be added, the sound of the bells hanging 
on the tre<.«, which will be put in motion by the wind pro- 
ceeding from the throne of God, as often as the blessed wish 
fM music."- Safe. 

' The blue lotos, which grows in Cashmere and in Persia. 

" Whoae wanton eyes resemble blue water-liliisa agitated by 



Thy holiest time is the moonlight Lour, 
And there never was moonlight so sweet 

as this." 

" By the fair and brave, 

Who blushing unite, 
Like the sun and wave 

When they meet at night ! 

" By the tear that shows 

When passion is nigh, 
As the rain-drop flows 

From the heat of the sky ! 

" By the first love-beat 

Of the youthful heart, 
By the bliss to meet, 

And the pain to part ! 

" By all that thou hast 

To mortals given, 
Which — oh ! could it last, 

This earth were heaven ! 

: 'We call thee hither, entrancing Power! 

Spirit of Love ! Spirit of Bliss ! 
Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour, 

And there never was moonlight so sweet 
as this." 

Impatient of a scene, whose luxuries stole, 
3pke of himself, too deep into his soul, 
And where, midst all that the young heart 

loves most, 
Flowers, music, smiles, to yield was to be lost, 
The youth had started up, and turn'd away 
From the light nymphs and their luxurious 

lay, 
To muse upon the pictures that hung 

round,' — 
Bright images, that spoke without a sound, 
And views, like vistas into fairy ground. 
But here again new spells came o'er his 

sense ; — 
All that the pencil's mute omnipotence 
Could call up into life, of soft and fair, 



4 It has been generally supposed that the Mohammedan* 
prohibit all pictures of animals; but Toderini showB that, 
though the practice is forbidden by the Koran, they are not 
more averse to painted figures and images than other people. 
From Mr. Murphy's work, too, we find that the Arate of Spaia 
had no objection to the introduction of figures into painting. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Of fond and passionate, was glowing there; 
Nor yet too warm, but touch'd with that 

fine art 
Which paints of pleasure but the purer part ; 
Which knows even Beauty when half-veil'il 

is best, 
Like her own radiant planet of the west, 
Whose orb when half-retired looks loveliest !' 
There hung the history of the Genii-King,''' 
Traced through each gay, voluptuous wan- 
dering 
With her from Saba's bowers,' in whose 

bright eyes 
He read that to be blest is to be wise ; — 
Here fond Zuleika' woos with open arms 
The Hebrew boy, who flies from her young 

charms. 
Tet, flying, turns to gaze, and, half undone, 
Wishes that heaven and she could both be 

won ! 
And here Mohammed, born for love and guile, 
Forgets the Koran in his Mary's smile ; 
Then beckons some kind angel from above 
With a new text to consecrate their love ! 

With rapid step, yet pleased and lingering 

eye, 
Did the youth pass these pictured stories by, 
And hasten'd to a casement, where the light 
Of the calm moon came in, and freshly bright 
The fields without were seen, sleeping as still 
As if no life remain'd in breeze or rill. 
Here paused he, while the music, now less 

near, 
Breathed with a holier language on his ear, 
As though the distance, and that heavenly 

ray 
Through which the sounds came floating, 

took away 
All that had been too earthly in the lay. 
Oh ! could he listen to such sounds unmoved, 
And by that light — nor dream of her he 

loved ? 
Dream on, unconscious boy ! while yet thou 

maysfc ; 



• This is not quite astronomically true. " Dr. Halley," says 
KeL, " has shown that Venus is brightest when she is about 
forty degrees removed from the sun ; and that then but only a 
fourth part of her lucid disk is to be seen from the earth." 

s King Solomon, who was supposed to preside over the 
whole race of genii. 

* The Queen of Sheba or Saba. 

« The w ife of Poliphar, thus named by the Orientals. 



'T is the last bliss thy soul shall ever taste. 
Clasp yet a while her image to thy heart, 
Ere all the light that made it dear depart. 
Think of her smiles as when thou sawst them 

last, 
Clear, beautiful, by naught of earth o'ercaat; 
Recall her tears to thee at parting given. 
Pure as they weep, if angele weep in heaven ! 
Think in her own still bower she waits thee 

now, 
With the same glow of heart and bloom of 

brow, 
Yet shrined in solitude — thine all, thine only, 
Like the one star above thee, bright and 

lonely ! 
Oh, that a dream so sweet, so long enjoy'd, 
Should be so sadly, cruelly destroy'd ! 

The song is hush'd, the laughing nympbg 

are flown, 
And he is left, musing of bliss, alone ; — 
Alone ? — no, not alone — that heavy sigh, 
That sob of grief, which broke from some 

one nigh — 
Whose could it be ? — alas ! is misery found 
Here, even here, on this enchanted ground ? 
He turns, and sees a female form, close veil'd, 
Leaning, as if both heart and strength had 

fail'd, 
Against a pillar near; — not glittering o'er 
With gems and wreaths, such as the others 

wore, 
But in that deep-blue, melancholy dress' 
Bokhara's maidens wear in mindfulness 
Of friends or kindred, dead or far away ; — 
And such as Zelica had on that day 
He left her, — when, with heart too full to 

speak, 
He took away her last warm tears upon his 

cheek. 

A strange emotion stirs within him, — more 
Than mere compassion ever waked before ;— 
Unconsciously he opes his arms, while she 
Springs forward, as with life's last energy, 
But, swooning in that one convulsive bound, 
Sinks ere she reach his arms, upon the 

ground ; — 
Her veil falls off — her faint hands clasp hit 

knees — 



' Deep blue ie their mourning color.' 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



'Tis she herself ! — 'tis Zelica he sees ! 

But, ah, so pale, so changed — none but a lover 

Could in that wreck of beauty's shrine dis- 
cover 

The once-adored divinity ! even he 

Stood for some moments mute, and doubt- 
ingly 

Put back the ringlets from her brow, and 
gazed 

Upon those lids, where once such lustre 



Ere he could think she was indeed his own, 
Own dar'ing maid, whom he so long had 

known 
In joy and sorrow, beautiful in both ; 
Who, even when grief was heaviest — when 

loth 
He left her for the wars — in that worst hour 
Sat in her sorrow like the sweet night-flower, 1 
When darkness brings its weeping glories out, 
And spreads its sighs like frankincense about ! 

" Look up, my Zelica — one moment show 
Those gentle eyes to me, that I may know 
Thy life, thj loveliness is not all gone, 
Bmt there, at least, shines as it ever shone 
Come, look upon thy Azim — one dear glance, 
Like those of old, were heaven ! — whatever 

chance 
Hath brought thee here, oh ! 'twas a blessed 

one ! 
There — my sweet lids — they move — that 

kiss hath run 
Like the first shoot of life through every vein,, 
And now I clasp her, mine, all mine again ! 
Oh, the delight — now, in this very hour 
When, had the whole rich world been in my 

power, 
I should have singled out thee, only thee, 
From the whole world's collected treasury — 
To have thee here — to hang thus fondly o'er 
My own best, purest Zelica once more !" 

It was indeed the touch of those loved lips 
Upon her eyes that chased their short eclipse, 
And, gradual as the snow at heaven's breath 
Melts ofl\, and shows the azure flowers beneath, 
Her lids unclosed; and the bright eyes were 
seen 



Gazing on his, — not as they late had been, 
Quick, restless, wild, but mournfully serene ; 
As if to lie, even for that tranced minute, 
So near his heart, had consolation in it; 
And thus to wake in his beloved caress 
Took from her soul one half its wretched- 
ness, 
But, when she heard him call her good and 

pure, 
Oh, 'twas too much — too dreadful to endure I 
Shuddering she broke away from his em- 
brace, 
And, hiding with both hands her guilty face, 
Said, in a tone whose anguish would have 

riven 
A heart of very marble, " Pure ! — O Heaven !" 

That tone — those looks so changed — the 
withering blight 
That sin and sorrow leave where'er they 

light— 
The dead despondency of those sunk eyes, 
Where once, had he thus met her by sur- 
prise, 
He would have seen himself, too happy boy, 
Reflected in a thousand lights of joy ; 
And then the place, that bright unholy place, 
Where vice lay hid beneath such winning 

grace 
And charm of luxury, as, the viper weaves 
Its wily covering of sweet balsam leaves ; 
All struck upon his heart, sudden and cold 
As death itself; — it needs not to be told — 
No, no — he sees it all, plain as the brand 
Of burning shame can mark — whate'er the 

hand, 
That could from Heaven and him such 

brightness sever, 
'Tis done — to Heaven and him she's lost for- 
ever ! 
It was a dreadful moment ; not the tears, 
The lingering, lasting misery of years 
Could match that minute's anguish — all the 

worst 
Of sorrow's elements in that dark burst 
Broke o'er his soul, and, with one crash of 

fate, 
Laid the whole hopes of his life desolate ! 

" Oh ! curse me not," she criei, as wild he 
toss'd 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



His desperate hand toward heaven — " though 

I am lost, 
Think not that guilt, that falsehood made 

me fall ; 
No, no — 'twas grief, 'twas madness did it 

all! 
Nay, doubt me not— though all thy love hath 

ceased — 
I know it hath — yet, yet believe, at least, 
That every spark of reason's light must be 
Quench'd in this brain, ere I could stray 

from thee ! 
They told me thou wert dead — why, Azim, 

why 
Did we not, both of us, that instant die 
When we were parted ? — oh ! couldst thou 

but know 
With what a deep devotedness of woe 
I wept thy absence — o'er and o'er again 
Thinking of thee, still thee, till thought 

grew pain, 
And memory, like a drop that, night and 

day, 
Falls cold and ceaseless, wore my heart 

away! 
Didst thou but know how pale I sat at home, 
My eyes still turn'd the way thou wert to 

come, 
And all the long, long night of hope and 

fear, 
Thy voice and step still sounding in my ear — 
O God ! thou wouldst not wonder that, at 

last, 
When every hope was all at once o'ercas^ 
When I heard frightful voices round me say, 
Azim is dead! — this wretched brain gave 

way, 
And 1 became a wreck, at random driven, 
Without one glimpse of reason or of heaven — 
All wild — and even this quenchless love 

within 
Turn'd to foul fires to light me into sin ! 
Thou pitiest me ! — I knew thou wouldst — 

that sky 
Hath naught beneath it half so lorn as I. 
The fiend who lured me hither — hist ! come 

near, 
Or thou too, thou art lost, if he should hear — 
Told me such things — oh ! with such devil- 
ish art, 
As would have ruin'd even a holier heart — 



Of thee, and of that ever-radiant sphere, 
Where blest at length, if I but served him 

here, 
I should forever live in thy dear sight, 
And drink from those pure eyes eternal light! 
Think, think how lost, how madden'd I must 

be, 
To hope that guilt could lead to God or thee! 
Thou weepst for me — do, weep — oh ! that 1 

durst 
Kjss off that tear! but, no — these lips are 

curst, 
They must not touch thee ; — one divine caress, 
One blessed moment of forgetfulness 
I've had within those arms, and that shall lie, 
Shrined in my soul's deep memory till I die ! 
The last of joy's last relics here below, 
The one sweet drop in all this waste of woe, 
My heart has treasured from affection's 

spring, 
To soothe and cool its deadly withering ! 
But thou — yes, thou must go — forever go ; 
This place is not for thee — for thee ! oh no, 
Did I but tell thee half, thy tortured brain 
Would burn like mine, and mine go wild 

again! 
Enough, that g'ti'rf !<:.'£-.* itie — tk*i l^.arts, 

once good, 
Now tainted, chill'd, and broken, are his food. 
Enough, that we are parted — that there rolls 
A flood of headlong fate between our souls, 
Whose darkness severs me as wide from tuee 
As hell from heaven, to all eternity !" — 

" Zelica ! Zelica !" the youth exclaim'd, 
In all the tortures of a mind inflamed 
Almost to madness — "'by that sacred heaven, 
Where yet, if prayers can move, thou'lt be 

forgiven, 
As thou art here — here, in this writhing 

heart, 
All sinful, wild, and ruin'd as thou art ! 
By the remembrance of our once pure love, 
Which, like a church-yard light, still burns 

above 
The grave of our lost souls — which guilt in 

thee 
Cannot extinguish, nor despair in me ! 
I do conjure, implore thee to fly hence — 
If thou hast yet one spark of innocence, 
Fly with rne from this place " 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



" With thee I O bliss, 
Tis worth whole years of torment to hear this. 
What ! take the lost o^e with thee ? — let her 

rove 
By thy deal side, as ~i tnose days of love, 
When we were both so happy, both so pure — 
Too heavenly dream ! if there's on earth a cure 
For the sunk heart, 'tis this — day after day 
To be the blest companion of thy way ; — 
To hear thy angel eloquence — to see 
Those virtuous eyes forever turn'd on me ; 
And in their light rechasten'd silently, 
Like the stain'd web that whitens in the sun, 
Grow pure by being purely shone upon ! 
And thou wilt pray for me — I know thou 

wilt — 
At the dim vesper-hour, when thoughts of 

guilt 
Come heaviest o'er the heart, thou'lt lift 

thine eyes, 
Full of sweet tears, unto the darkening skies, 
And plead forme with Heaven, till I can dare 
To fix my own weak, sinful glances there ; — 
Till tr.r. good angels, when they see me cling 
Forever near thee, pale and sorrowing, 
•ihall for thy sake pronounce my soul 

forgiven, 
And bid thee take thy weeping slave to 

heaven ! 
Oh yes, I'll fly with thee " 

Scarce had she said 
These breathless words, when a voice deep 

and dread 
As that of Monker waking up the dead 
From their first sleep — so startling 'twas to 

both- 
Rung through the casement near, " Thy 

oath ! thy oath !" 
O Heaven, the ghastliness of that maid's 

look ! — 
" 'Ti3 he," faintly she cried, while terror shook 
Her inmost core, nor durst she lift her eyes, 
Though through the casement now naught 

but the skies 
And moonlight fields were seen, calm as 

before — 
" 'Tis he, and I am his — all, all is o'ei — 
Go — fly this instant, or thou'rt ruin'd too — 
My oath, my oath, O God ! 'tis all too true, 
True, as the worm in this cold heart it is — 



I am Mokanna's bride — his, Azim, his — 
The dead stood round us while I spoke that 

vow, 
Their blue lips echo'd it — I hear them now J 
Their eyes glared on me while I pledged tha 

bowl, 
'Twas burning blood — I feel it in my soul ! 
And the Veil'd Bridegroom — hist ! I've seen 

to-night 
What angels know not of — so foul a sight, 
So horri ble — oh ! never mayst thou see 
What there lies hid from all but hell and me ! 
But I must hence — off, off — I am not thine, 
Nor Heaven's, nor Love's, nor aught that is 

divine — 
Hold me not — ha ! — thinkst thou the fiends 

that sever 
Hearts cannot sunder hands ? — thus, then — 
■ forever !" 

With all that strength which madness 

lends the weak, 
She flung away his arm ; and, with a shriek, — 
Whose sound, though he should linger out 

more years 
Than wretch e'er told, can never leave his 

ears, — 
Flew up through that long avenue of light, 
Fleetly as some dark, ominous bird of night 
Across the sun, and soon was out of sight ! 

Lalla Rookh could think of nothing all day 
but the misery of these two young lovers. 
Her gayety was gone, and she looked pen- 
sively even upon Fadladeen. She felt too, 
without knowing why, a sort of uneasy 
pleasure in imagining that Azim must have 
been just such a youth as Feramorz ; just as 
worthy to enjoy all the blessings, without 
any of the pangs, of that illusive passion, 
which too often, like the sunny apples of 
Istkahar,' is all sweetness on one side, and 
all bitterness on the other. 

As they passed along a sequestered river 
after sunset, they saw a young Hindoo girl 
upon the bank, whose employment seemed to 
them so strange, that they stopped their 
palankeens to observe her. She had lighted 
a small lamp, filled with oil of cocoa, and 



94 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



placing it in an earthen dish, adorned with a 
wreath of flowers, had committed it with a 
trembling hand to the stream, and was now 
anxiously watching its progress down the 
current, heedless of the gay cavalcade which 
had drawn up beside her. Lalla Rookh was 
all curiosity ; — when one of her attendants, 
who had lived upon the banks of the Ganges, 
(where this ceremony is so frequent, that 
often, in the dusk of the evening, the river 
is seen glittering all over with lights, like 
the Oton-tala or Sea of Stars,) 1 informed 
the Princess that it was the usual way in 
which the friends of those who had gone on 
dangerous voyages offered up vows for their 
safe return. If the lamp sunk immediately, 
the omen was disastrous; but if it went shin- 
ing down the stream, and continued to burn 
till entirely out of sight, the return of the 
beloved object was considered as certain. 

Lalla Rookh, as they moved on, more than 
once looked back to observe how the young 
Hindoo's lamp proceeded ; and while she saw 
with pleasure that it was still unextinguished, 
she could not help fearing that all the hopes 
cf this life were no better than that feeble 
light upon the river. The remainder of the 
journey was passed in silence. She now, for 
the first time, felt that shade of melancholy 
which comes over the youthful maiden's 
heart, as sweet and transient as her own 
breath upon a mirror; nor was it till she 
heard the lute of Feramorz touched lightly 
at the door of her pavilion, that she waked 
from the reverie in which she had been wan- 
dering. Instantly her eyes were lighted up 
with pleasure, and, after a few unheard re- 
marks from Fadladeen upon the indecorum 
of a poet seating himself in pi-esence of a 
princess, everything was arranged as on the 
preceding evening, and all listened with 
eagerness, while the story was thus con- 
tinued : — 

Whose are the gilded tents that crowd the 

way, 
Where all was waste and silent yesterday? 



' " The place where the Whangho, a river of Tibet, rises, 
and where there are more than a hundred springs, which 
•parkle like stars ; whence it is called Hotun-hor, that is, the 
bea of Stars - Description of Tibet in /W"-'»n. 



This City of War which, in a few short hours 
Hath sprung up here, as if the magic powers 
Of him who, in the twinkling of a star, 
Built the high-pillar'd halls of Chilminar,* 
Had conjured up, far as the eye can see, 
This world of tents and domes and sun- 
bright armory ! — 
Princely pavilions, screen'd by many a fold 
Of crimson cloth, and topp'd with balls of 

gold ; — 
Steeds, wich their housings of rich silver spun, 
Their chains and poitrels glittering in the sun ; 
And camels, tufted o'er with Yemen's shells,' 
Shaking in every breeze their light-toned 



But yester-eve, so motionless around, 
So mute was this wide plain, that not a 

sound 
But the far torrent, or the lo«ust-bird, 4 
Hunting among the thickets, could be 

heard ; — 
Yet hark ! what discords now of every kind, 
Shouts, laughs, and screams are revelling in 

the wind ! 
The neigh of cavalry ; — the tinkling throngs 
Of laden camels and their drivers' songs ;* — 
Ringing of arms, and flapping in the breeze 
Of streamers from ten thousand canopies ; — 
War-music, bursting out from time to time 
With gong and tymbalon's tremendaus 

chime ; — 
Or, in the pause, when harsher sounds are 

mute, 
The mellow breathings of some horn or flute. 
That far off, broken by the eagle note 
Of the Abyssinian trumpet,' swell and float 1 



2 The edifices of Chilminar and Baalbec are supposed to 
have been built by the genii, acting under the orders of Jan 
ben Jan, who governed the world long before the time of Adam. 

3 "A superb camel, ornamented with strings and tufts of 
small shells."— AH Bey. 

4 A native of Khorassan. and allured southward by means 
of the water of a fountain between Shiraz and Ispahan, called 
the Fountain of Birds, of which it is so fond that it will follow 
wherever that water is carried. 

6 " Some of the camels have bells about their neck*, and 
some about their legs, like those which our carriers put about 
their fore-horses' necks."— Pitt's Account of the Moham- 
medans. 

"The camel-driver follows the camel Binging, and some- 
times playing upon his pipe; the louder he sings and pipas, 
the faster the camels go. Nay, they will stand still when a* 
gives over his music."— Tavernier. 

• •• This trumpet is often called in Abyssinia Ifesser daw* 
which signifies *he Note i f the Eagle." 



POEMS OP THOMAS MOORE. 



Who leads this mighty army ? — ask ye 

" who ?" 
And mark ye not those banners of dark hue, 
The Night and Shadow,' over yonder tent? — 
It is the Caliph's glorious armament. 
Housed in his palace by the dread alarms, 
That hourly came, of the false Prophet's arms 
And of his host of infidels, who hurl'd 
Defiance fierce at Islam" and the world ; — 
Though worn with Grecian warfare, and 

behind 
The veils of his bright palace calm reclined, 
Yet brook'd he not such blasphemy should 

stain, 
Thus unrevenged the evening of his reign, 
But, having sworn upon the Holy Grave 3 
To conquer or to perish, once more gave 
His shadowy banners proudly to the breeze, 
And with an army nursed in victories, 
Here stands to crush the rebels that o'errun 
His blest and beauteous Province of the Sua. 

Ne'er did the march of Mahadi display 
Such pomp before ; — not even when on his 

way 
To Mecca's temple, when both land and sea 
Were spoil'd to feed the pilgrim's luxury ;* 
When round him, 'mid the burning sands, 

he paw 
Fruits of the North in icy freshness thaw, 
And cool'd his thirsty lip, beneath the glow 
Of Mecca's sun, with urns of Persian snow: — 
Nor e'er did armament more grand than that 
Pour from the kingdoms of the Caliphat. 
First in the van, the People of the Rock," 
On their light mountain steeds of royal stock ;* 
Then Chieftains of Damascus, proud to see 
The flashing of their swords rich marque- 
try ;'— 



> " The two black standards borne before the Caliphs of the 
House of Abbas were called, allegorically, 'The Night and 
The Shadow.' " 

8 The Mohammedan religion. 

• " The Persians swear by the Tomb of Shah Besade, who 
is buried at Casbin ; and when one desires another to assev- 
erate a matter he will ask him if he dare swear by the Holy 

• Mahadi. in a single pilgrimage to Mecca, expended six 
millions of dinars of gold. 

'• •' The inhabitants of Hejaz, or Arabia Petraea, called ' The 
People of the Rock.' " 

• " Those horses, called by the Arabians Kochlani, of whom 
% written genealogy has been kept for 200& years. They are 
laid to derive their origin from King Solomon's steeds." 

» " Many of the figures on the blades of their swords are 
wrought in gold or silver, or in marquetry with small genu." 



Men from the regions near the Volga's mouth 
Mbc'd with the rude, black archers of th« 

South ; 
And Indian lancers, in white turban'd ranks 
From the far Sinde, or Attock's sacred banks, 
With dusky legions from the Land of Myrrh,' 
And many a mace-arm'd Moor and Mid-Sea 

Islander. 

Nor less in number, though more new and 

rude 
In warfare's school, was the vast multitude 
That, fired by zeal, or by oppression wrong'd, 
Round the white standard of the Impostor 

throng'd. 
Beside his thousands of Believers, — blind, 
Burning, and headlong as th^Samiel wind, — 
Many who felt, and more who fear'd to feel 
The bloody Islamite's converting steel, 
Flock'd to his banner : — Chiefs of the Uzbek 

race, 
Waving their heron crests with martial 

grace :* 



Turkomans, countless as their flocks, led forth 
From the aromatic pastures of the North , 
Wild warriors of the turquoise hills, 10 — and 

those 
Who dwell beyond the everlasting snows 
Of Hindoo Kosh, in stormy freedom bred, 
Their fort the rock, their camp the torrent's 

bed. 
But none, of all who own'd the chief's com- 
mand 
Rush'd to that battle-field with bolder hand 
Or sterner hate than Iran's outlaw'd men, 
Her Worshippers of Fire" — all panting then 
For vengeance on the accursed Saracen ; 
Vengeance at last for their dear country 

spurn'd, 
Her throne usurp'd, and her bright shrinwi 

o'erturn'd. 
From Yezd's" eternal Mansion of the Fire, 



6 Azab or Saba. 

» " The chiefs of the Uzbek Tartars wear a plume of whit* 
heron's feathers in their turbans." 

10 " In the mountains of Nishaponr and Tous in Khorassan 
they And turquoises." 

1: The Ghebere or Quebres, those original natives of PersU 
who adhered to their ancient faith, the religion of Zoroaster, 
and who, after the conquest of their country by the Arabs, 
were either persecuted at home or forced to become wan- 
derers abroad. 

" " Yezd, the chief residence of those ancient natives wh« 
worship the Son and the Fire, which latter they have car* 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Where aged saints in dreams of heaven expire ; 
From Badku, and those fountains of blue 

flame 
That burn into the Caspian, 1 fierce they came, 
Careless for what or whom the blow was sped, 
So vengeance triumph'd and their tyrants 

bled! 

Such was the wild and miscellaneous host 
That high in air their motley banners toss'd 
Around the Prophet-Chief — all eyes still bent 
Upon that glittering veil, where'er it went, 
That beacon through the battle's stormy 

flood, 
That rainbow of the field, whose showers 
were blood ! 

Twice hath the sun upon their conflict set, 
And risen again, and found them grappling 

yet; 
While steams of carnage, in his noon-tide 

blaze, 
Smoke up to heaven — hot as that crimson 

haze 8 
By which the prostrate caravan is awed 
In the red desert when the wind's abroad ! 
" On, Swords of God !" the panting Caliph 

calls, — 
"Thrones for the living — heaven for him 

who falls !"— 
" On, brave avengers, on," Mokanna cries, 
"And Eblis blast the recreant slave that 

flies !" 
Now comes the brunt, the crisis of the day — 
They clash — they strive — the Caliph's troops 

give way ! 
Mokanna's self plucks the black banner down, 
And now the orient world's imperial crown 
Is just within his grasp — when, hark, that 

shout ! 
Some hand hath check'd the flying Moslems' 

rout, 



rally kept lighted, without being once extinguished for a 
moment, above 3000 years, on a mountain near Yezd, called 
Ater Quedah, signifying the House or Mansion of the Fire. 
He is reckoned very unfortunate who dies off that mountain." 

1 "When the weather is hazy, the springs of naphtha (on an 
Island near Baku) boil np the higher, and the naphtha often 
takes Are on the surface of the earth, and runs in a flame into 
the sea to a distance almost incredible." 

3 Savary says — "Torrents of burning sand roll before it, the 
Armament is enveloped in a thick veil, and the sun appears 
of the color of blood. Sometimes whole caravans are buried 
In it." 



And now they turn — they rally — at their head 
A warrior (like those angel youths, who led, 
In glorious panoply of heaven's own mail, 
The Champions of the Faith through Beder's 

vale,)' 
Bold as if gifted with ten thousand lives, 
Turns on the fierce pursuers' blades, and 

drives 
At once the multitudinous torrent back, 
While hope and courage kindle in his track, 
And, at each step, his bloody falchion makes 
Terrible vistas through which victory breaks ! 
In vain Mokanna, 'midst the general flight, 
Stands like the red moon, on some stormy 

night 
Among the fugitive clouds that, hurrying by, 
Leave only her unshaken in the sky ! — 
In vain he yells his desperate curses out, 
Deals death promiscuously to all about, 
To foes that charge and coward friends thai 

fly, 

And seems of all the great arch-enemy ! 
The panic spreads—" A miracle !" throughout 
The Moslem ranks," A miracle !" they* shout, 
All, gazing on that youth, whose coming 

seems 
A light, a glory, such as breaks in dreams ; 
And every sword, true as o'er billows dim 
The needle tracks the load-star, following 

him ! 

Right toward Mokanna now he cleaves his 

path, 
Impatient cleaves, as though the bolt of 

wrath 
He bears from Heaven withheld its awful 

burst 
From weaker heads, and souls but half-way 

curst, 
To break o'er him, the mightiest and the 

worst ! 
But vain his speed — though, in that hour of 

blood, 
Had all God's seraphs round Mokanna stood, 
With swords of fire, ready like fate to fall, 
Mokanna's soul would have defied them all ; — 
Yet now, the rush of fugitives, too strong 
For human force, hurries even him along ; 



■ "In the great victory gained by Mohammad at Beder, h« 
was assisted by three thousand angels, led by Gabriel r 
on his horse Hiaznra." 






POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



In vain he struggles 'mid the wedged array 
Of flying thousands, — he is borne away ; 
And the sole joy his baffled spirit knows 
In this forced flight is — murdering, as he 

goes ! 
As a grim tiger, whom the torrent's might 
Surprises in some parch'd ravine at night, 
Turns, even in drowning, on the wretched 

flocks 
Swept with him in that snow-flood from the 

rocks, 
And, to the last, devouring on his way, 
Bloodies the stream he hath not power to 

stay! 

" Alia il Alia !" — the glad shout renew — 
" Alia Akbar !'" — the Caliph's in Merou. 
Hang out your gilded tapestry in the streets, 
And light your shrines and chant your zira- 

leets ; a 
The Sword of God hath triumph'd — on his 

throne 
Your Caliph sits, and the Veil'd Chief hath 

flown. 
Who does not envy that young warrior now, 
To whom the Lord of Islam bends his brow, 
In all the graceful gratitude of power, 
For his throne's safety in that perilous hour! 
Who doth not wonder, when, amidst the 

acclaim 
Of thousands, heralding to heaven his name — 
'Mid all those holier harmonies of fame 
Which sound along the path of virtuous 

souls, 
Like music round a planet as it rolls ! — 
He turns away, coldly, as if some gloom 
Hung o'er his heart no triumphs can il- 
lume ; — 
Some sightless grief, upon whose blasted gaze 
Though glory's light may play, in vain it 

plays ! 
Yes, wretched Azim ! thine is such a grief, 
Beyond all hope, all terror, all relief; 
A dark, cold calm, which nothing now can 

break, 
Or warm, or brighten, — like that Syrian Lake 3 



1 The Tecbir, or cry of the Arabs. 
Ockley, "means God is most mighty." 

* " The ziraleet is a kind of chorus which the: wo 
East sing upon joyful occasions." 

' The Dead Sea, which contains neither animal i 



' Alia Acbar 1" says 



Upon whose surface morn and summer shed 
Their smiles in vain, for all beneath is 

dead ! — 
Hearts there have been o'er which this weight 

of woe 
Came by loner use of suffering, tame and 

slow, 
But thine, lost youth ! was sudden — over 

thee 
It broke at once, when all seem'd ecstasy ; 
When Hope look'd up, and saw the gloomy 

past 
Melt into splendor, and bliss dawn at last — 
'Twas then, even then, o'er joys so frebhly 

blown, 
This mortal blight of misery came down ; 
Even then, the full, warm gushings of thy 

heart 
Were check'd — like fount-drops, frozen as- 

they start ! 
And there, like them, cold, sunless relics* 

hang, 
Each fix'd and chill'd into a lasting pang L' 

One sole desire, one passion now remains^ 
To keep life's fever still within his veins, 
Vengeance ! — dire vengeance on the wretch 

who cast 
O'er him and all he loved that ruinous blast. 
For this, when rumors reach'd him in his 

flight 
Far, far away, after that fatal night, — 
Rumors of armies, thronging to the attack 
Of the Veil'd Chief,— for thi,s he wing'd him 

back, 
Fleet as the vulture speeds to flags unfurl'd, 
And came when all seem'd lost, and wildly 

hurl'd 
Himself into the scale, and saved a world ! 
For this he still lives on, careless of all 
The wreaths that glory on his path lets fall ; 
For this alone exists — like lightning-fire 
To speed one bolt of vengeance, and expire ! 

But safe as yet that spirit of evil lives; 
With a small band of desperate fugitives, 
The last sole stubborn fragment, left unriven, 
Of the proud host that late stood fronting 

Heaven, 
He gain'd Merou — breathed a short curse of 

blood 






POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



O'er his lost throne — then pass'd the Jihon's 

flood,' 
And gathering all whose madness of belief 
Still saw a saviour in their down-fallen 

Chief, 
Raised the white banner within Neksheb's 

gates,* 
And there, untamed, the approaching con- 

qtieror waits. 

Of all his Haram, all that busy hive, 
With music and with sweets sparkling alive, 
He took but one, the partner of his flight, 
One, not for We — not for her beauty's 

light— 
For Zelica stood withering midst the gay, 
Wan as the blossom that fell yesterday 
From the Alma-tree and dies, while overhead 
To-day's young flower is springing in its 

stead !' 
No, not for love — the deepest damn'd must be 
"Touch'd with heaven's glory, ere such fiends 

as he 
'Can feel one glimpse of love's divinity ! 
But no, she is his victim : — there lie all 
Her charms for him — charms that can never 

pall, 
As long as hell within his heart can stir, 
Or one faint trace of heaven is left in her. 
To work an angel's ruin, — to behold 
As white a page as Virtue e'er unroll'd 
Blacken, beneath his touch, into a scroll 
Of damning sins, seal'd with a burning soul — 
This is his triumph ; this the joy accurst, 
That ranks him among demons all but first ! 
This gives the victim that before him lies 
Blighted and lost, a glory in his eyes, 
A light like that with which hell-fire illumes 
The ghastly, writhing wretch whom it con- 



But other tasks now wait him — tasks that 

need 
All the deep daringness of thought and deed 
With which the Dives' have gifted him — for 

mark, 



i The ancient Oxus. 

■ A city of Transoxiania. 

» " You never can cast your eyes on this tree but you meet 
Ihere either blossoms or fruit; and as the blossoms drop 
tndemeath on the ground, others come forth in their stead." 

4 The demons of the Persian mythology. 



Over yon plains, which night had else made 

dark, 
Those lanterns, countless as the winged lights 
That spangle India's fields on showery 

nights,' 
Far as their formidable gleams they shed, 
The mighty tents of the beleaguerer spread, 
Glimmering along the horizon's dusky line, 
And thence in nearer circles, till they shine 
Among the founts and groves, o'er which 

the town 
In all its arm'd magnificence looks down. 
Yet, fearless, from his lofty battlements 
Mokanna views that multitude of tents ; 
Nay. smiles to think that, though entoil'd, 

beset, 
Not less than myriads dare to front him 

yet; — 
That friendless, throneless, he thus stands at 

bay, 
Even thus a match for myriads such as they ! 
" Oh for a sweep of that dark angel's wing, 
Who brush'd the thousands of the Assyrian 

king 8 
To darkness in a moment, that I might 
People hell's chambers with yon host to 

night ! 
But come what may, let who will grasp the 

throne, 
Caliph or Prophet, man alike shall groan ; 
Let who will torture him, Priest — Caliph — 

King- 
Alike this loathsome world of his shall ring 
With victims' shrieks and howlings of the 

slave, — 
Sounds that shall glad me even within my 

grave !" 
Thus to himself — but to the scanty train 
Still left around him, a far diiferent strain : — 
" Glorious defenders of the sacred Crown 
I bear from heaven, whose light nor blood 

shall drown 
Nor shadow of earth eclipse ; before whose 

gems 
The paly pomp of this world's diadems, 
The crown of Gerashid, the pillar'd throne' 



• Carreri mentions the fire-flies in India during the rainy 

• •' Sennacherib, called by the orientals King of Moussal." 
' There were said to be under this throne or palace of Khoa- 

rou Parviz a hundred ranlts filled with " treasures so immensa, 
that some Mohammedan writers tell as, their Prophet, to en 






POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Of Parviz,' and the heron crest that shone,' 
Magnificent, o'er Ali's beauteous eyes,' 
Fade like the stars when morn is in the skies : 
Warriors, rejoice— the port, to which we've 

pass'd 
O'er destiny's dark wave, beams out at last ! 
Victory's our own — 'tis written in that Book 
Upon whose leaves none but the angels look, 
That Islam's sceptre shall beneath the power 
Of her great foe fall broken in that hour 
When the moon's mighty orb, before all eyes, 
From Neksheb's Holy Well portentously 

shall rise ! 
Now turn and see !" 

They turn'd, and, as he spoke, 
A sudden splendor all around them broke, 
And they beheld an orb, ample and bright, 4 
Rise from the Holy Well, and cast its light 
Round the rich city and the plain for miles,*— 
Flinging such radiance o'er the gilded tiles 
Of many a dome and fair-roof 'd imaret, 
As autumn suns shed round them when they 

set! 
Instant from all who saw the illusive sign 
A murmur broke — " Miraculous ! divine !" 
The Gheber bow'd, thinking his idol Star 
Had waked, and burst impatient through 

the bar 
Of midnight, to inflame him to the war ! 
While he of Moussa's creed saw in that ray 
The glorious Light which, in his freedom's 

day, 
Had rested on the Ark," and now again 
Shone out to bless the breaking of his chain ! 



courage his disciples, carried them to a rock, which at his 
command opened, and gave them a prospect through it of the 
treasures of Khosrou."— Universal History. 

1 Chosroes. 

s " The crown of Gerashid is cloudy and tarnished before 
the heron tuft of thy turban."— From one of the elegies or 
songs in praise of Ali, written in characters of gold round the 
gallery of Abbas's tomb. 

' " The beauty of Ali's eyes was so remarkable that, when- 
ever the Persians would describe anything ■" "orr lnvohr 
they say it is Ayn Hali, or the ey~ o f »J3. V 

• We are not told more of wia tncK of the Impostor, than 
that it was " une machine qu'il disoit etre la lnne." Accord- 
ing to Richardson, the miracle is perpetuated in Nekscheb— 
" Nakshab, the name of a city in Transoxiania, where they 
say there is a well in which the appearance of the moon is to 
be seen night and day." 

• " n aniusa pendant deux mois le peuple de la ville de Nekh- 
■cheb en faisant sortir toutes les nuits du fonds d'un puits un 
corps lnmineux semblable a la lune, qui portoit sa lumiire 
Jnaqn'a la distance de plnsienrB milles."— WHerbdot. Hence 
he was called Sazend6h Mah, or the Moon-maker. 

• The Shechinah, called Sakinat in the Koran ; vide Sale. 



"To victory !" is at once the ciy of all — 
Nor stands Mokanna loitering at that call ; 
But instant the huge gates are flung aside, 
And forth, like a diminutive mountain-tide 
Into the boundless sea, they speed their course 
Right on into the Moslems' mighty force, 
The watchmen of the camp, — who, in their 

rounds, 
Had paused, and even forgot the punctual 

sounds 
Of the small drum with which they count 

the night,' 
To gaze upon that supernatural light, — 
Now sink beneath an unexpected arm, 
And in a death-groan give their last alarm. 
" On for the lamps that light yon lofty 

screen,' 
Nor blunt your blades with massacre sc 

mean ; 
There rests the Caliph — speed — one lucky 

lance 
May now achieve mankind's deliverance !" 
Desperate the die — such as they only cast 
Who venture for a world, and stake their last. 
But Fate's no longer with him — blade for 

blade 
Springs up to meet them through the glim- 
mering shade, 
And as the clash is heard, new legions soon 
Pour to the spot, like bees of Kauzeroon,' 
To the shrill timbrel's summons, till, at 

length, 
The mighty camp swarms out in all its 

strength, 
And back to Neksheb's gates, covering the 

plain 
With random slaughter, drives the adven- 
turous train ; 
Among the last of whom, the Silver Veil 
Is seen, glittering at times, like the white sail 
Of some toss'd vessel, on a stormy night, 
Catching the tempest's momentary light ! 

i " The parts of the night are made known as well by in. 
struments of music as by the rounds of the watchmen with 
cries and small drums." 

» " The Serrapurda, high screens of red cloth stiffened with 
cane, used to enclose a considerable space round the royal 

The tents of princes were generally illuminated. Norden 
tells ns that the tent of the Bey of Girge was distinguished 
from the other tents by forty lanterns being suspended before 
it. Vide " Harmer's Observations on Job." 

* " From the groves of orange-trees at Kauzeroon the boa* 
cull a celebrated honey." 



100 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 






And hath not this brought the proud spirit 

low? 
Nor dash'd his brow, nor check'd his daring ? 

No, 
Though half the .wretches whom at night he 

led 
To thrones and victory lie disgraced and 

dead, 
Yet morning hears him, with unshrinking 

crest, 
Still vaunt of thrones and victory to the 

rest ; — 
And they believe him ! — oh, the lover may 
Distrust that look which steals his soul away ! 
The babe may cease to think that it can play 
With heaven's rainbow; alchymists may 

doubt 
The shining gold their crucible gives out, 
But Faith, fanatic Faith, once wedded fast 
To some dear falsehood, hugs it to the last. 

And well the Impostor knew all lures and 

arts 
That Lucifer e'er taught to tangle hearts ; 
Nor, 'mid these last bold workings of his plot 
Against men's souls, is Zelica forgot. 
Ill-fated Zelica ! had reason been 
Awake through half the horrors thou hast 

seen, 
Thou never couldst have borne it — Death 

had come 
At once and taken thy wrung spirit home. 
But 'twas not so — a torpor, a suspense 
Of thought, almost of life, came o'er the 

intense 
And passionate struggles of that fearful night, 
When her last hope of peace and heaven 

took flight : 
And though, at times, a gleam of frenzy 

broke, 
As through some dull volcano's veil of smoke 
Ominous flashings now and then will start, 
Which show the fire's still busy at its heart ; 
Yet was she mostly wrapp'd in sullen 

gloom, — 
Not such as Azim's, brooding o'er its doom, 
And calm without, as is the brow of death, 
While busy worms are gnawing under- 
neath ! — 
But in a blank and pulseless torpor, free 
From thought or pain, a seal'd-up apathy, 



Which left her oft, with scarce one lhing 

thrill, 
The cold, pale victim of her torturer's wilL 

Again, as in Merou, he had her deck'd 
Gorgeously out, the Priestess of the sect; 
And led her glittering forth before the eyes 
Of his rude train, as to a sacrifice ; 
Pallid as she, the young, devoted Bride 
Of the fierce Nile, when, deck'd in all the pride 
Of nuptial pomp, she sinks into his tide !' 
And while the wretched maid hung down 

her head, 
And stood, as one just risen from the dead, 
Amid that gazing crowd, the fiend would tell 
His credulous slaves it was some charm or 

spell 
Possess'd her now, — and from that darken'd 

trance 
Should dawn ere long their Faith's deliver- 
ance. 
Or if, at times, goaded by guilty shame, 
Her soul was roused, and words of wildnesa 

came, 
Instant the bold blasphemer would translate 
Her ravings into oracles of fate, 
Would hail Heaven's signals in her flashing 

eyes, 
And call her shrieks the language of the skies ! 

But vain at length his arts — despair is seen 
Gathering around ; and famine comes to glean 
All that the sword had left unreap'd ; — in vain 
At morn and eve across the northern plain 
He looks impatient for the promised spears 
Of the wild hordes and Tartar mountaineers ; 
They come not — while his fierce beleaguerers 

pour 
Engines of havoc in, unknown before, 3 



1 "A custom, Btill subsisting at this day, seems to nie to 
prove that the Egyptians formerly sacrificed a young virgin 
to the god of the Nile ; for they now make a statue of eai-,h in 
shape of a girl, to which they give the name of the BetrotneC 
Bride, and throw it into the river."— Savory. 

5 That they knew the secret of the Greek fire among the 
Mussulmans early in the eleventh century, appears from Dow'i 
Account of Mamood I. : — "When he had launched this lleet, 
he ordered twenty archers into each boat, and five others with 
fire-halls, to bnrn the craft of the Jits, and naphtha to set the 
whole river on fire." 

The Agnee oxter, too, in Indian poems, the Instrument of 
Fire, whose flame cannot be extinguished, is supposed to 
signify the Greek Fire. Vide " Wilks's South of India," vol. 
i., p. 471. 

The mention of gunpowder as in use among the Arabians, 
long before its supposed discovery in Europe, 1* introdioed 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



And horrible as new ;' — -javelins, that fly 
Enwreath'd with smoky flames through the 

dark sky, 
And red-hot globes that, opening as they 

mount, 
Discharge, as from a kindled naphtha fount,' 
Showers of consuming fire o'er all below; 
Looking, as through the illumined night 

they go, 
Like those wild birds" that by the Magians 

oft, 
At festivals of fire, were sent aloft 
Into the air, with blazing fagots tied 
To their huge wings, scattering combustion 

wide ! 
All night, the groans of wretches who ex- 
pire 
In agony beneath these darts of fire 
Ring through the city — while, descending 

o'er 
Its shrines and domes and streets of syca- 
more ; — 
Its lone bazaars, with their bright cloth of 

gold, 
Since the last peaceful pageant left unroll'd ; — 
Its beauteous marble baths, whose idle jets 
Now gush with blood ; — and its tall minarets, 
That late have stood up in the evening glare 
Of the red sun, unhallow'd by a prayer ; — 
O'er each in turn the terrible flame-bolts fall, 
And death and conflagration throughout all 
The desolate city hold high festival ! 



by Ebn Fadhl, the Egyptian geographer who lived in the 
thirteenth century. " Bodies," he says, " in the form of scor- 
pions, bound round and filled with nitrous powder, glide along, 
making a gentle noise; then, exploding, they lighten as it 
were, and burn. But there are others, which, cast into the 
air, stretch along like a cloud, roaring horribly, as thunder 
roars, and on all sides vomiting out flames, burst, burn, and 
reduce to cinders whatever comes in their way." The his- 
torian Ben Abdalla, in speaking of Abulualid in the year of 
Hegira 712, says, "a fiery globe, by means of combustible 
matter, with a mighty noise suddenly emitted, strikes with 
the force of lightning, and shakes the citadel." Vide the 
extracta from "Casiri's Biblioth. Arab. Hispan.," in the 
Appendix to " Berrington's Literary History of the Middle 

'- The Greek fire, which was occasionally lent by the Em- 
perors to their allies. 

2 See Hanway's " Account of the Springs of Naphtha at 
Baku" (which is called by Lieutenant Pottinger, Joala Mook- 
hee, or the Flaming Mouth), taking fire, and running into the 
tea. 

■ "At the great festival of fire, called the Sheb Seze, they 
ased to set fire to large bunches of dry combustibles, fastened 
round wild beasts and birds, which being then let loose, the 
air and earth appeared one great illumination; and as these 
terrified creatures naturally fled to the wood for shelter, it is 
easy to conceive the conflagrations they produced." 



Mokanna sees the world is his no more,;— 
One sting at parting, and his grasp is o'er. 
" What ! drooping now ?" — thus, with un- 
blushing cheek, 
He hails the few who yet can hear him speak, 
Of all those famish' d slaves around him lying, 
And by the light of blazing temples dying; — 
" What ! drooping now ? — now, when at 

length we press 
Home o'er the very threshold of success ; 
When Alia from our ranks hath thinn'd away 
Those grosser branches, that kept out his ray 
Of favor from us, and we stand at length 
Heirs of his light and children of his strength, 
The chosen few who shall survive the fall 
Of kings and thrones, triumphant over all ! 
Have you then lost, weak murmurers as you 

are, 
All faith in him who was your light, your 

star ? 
Have you forgot the eye of glory, hid 
Beneath this veil, the flashing of whose lid 
Could, like a sun-stroke of the desert, wither 
Millions of such as yonder chief brings hither ' 
Long have its lightnings slept — too long — 

but now 
All earth shall feel the unveiling of this brov. ! 
To-night — yes, sainted men ' this very night, 
I bid you all to a fair festal nte, 
Where, — having deep refresh'd each weary 

limb 
With viands such as feast heaven's cherub: 
And kindled up your souls, now sunk and d 
With that pure wine the dark-eyed maids 

above 
Keep, seal'd with precious musk, for those 

they love,* — 
I will myself uncurtain in your sight 
The wonders of this brow's ineffable light ; 
Then lead you forth, and with a wink disperse 
Yon myriads, howling through the universe!" 

Eager they listen — while each accent darts 
New life into their chill'd and hope-sick 

hearts ; — 
Such treacherous life as the cool draught 

supplies 
To nim upon the stake, who drinks and dies ! 



* "The righteous shall be given to drink of pure wins, 
sealed ; the seal whereof shall be musk."— Koran, cha». 
lxxxiil. -.,..- 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Wildly they point their lances to the light 
Of the fast-sinking sun, and shout, "To- 
night !"— 
" To-night," their chief re-echoes in a voice 
Of fiend-like mockery that bids hell rejoice ! 
Deluded victims — never hath this earth 
Seen mourning half so mournful as their 

mirth ! 
Here, to the few whose iron frames had stood 
This racking waste of famine and of blood, 
Faint, dying wretches clung, from whom the 

shout 
Of triumph like a maniac's laugh broke out; — 
There, others, lighted by the smouldering fire, 
Danced, like wan ghosts about a funeral pyre, 
Among the dead and dying strew'd around ;— 
While some pale wretch look'd on, and from 

his wound 
Plucking the fiery dart by which he bled, 
In ghastly transport waved it o'er his head ! 

'Twas more than midnight now — a fear- 
ful pause 
Had follow'd the long shouts, the wild ap- 
plause, 
That lately from those royal gardens burst, 
Where the veil'd demon held his feast accurst, 
When Zelica — alas, poor ruin'd heart, 
In every horror doom'd to bear its part ! — 
Was bidden to the banquet by a slave, 
W ho, while his quivering lip the summons 

gave, 
Grew black, as though the shadows of the 

grave 
Compass'd him round, and ere he could repeat 
His message through, fell lifeless at her feet ! 
Shuddering she went — a soul-felt pang of fear, 
A presage that her own dark doom was near, 
Roused every feeling, and brought reason 

back 
Once more, to writhe her last upon the rack. 
All round seeni'd tranquil — even the foe had 

ceased, 
As if aware of that demoniac feast, 
His fiery bolts; and though the heavens 

look'd red, 
Twas but some distant conflagration's spread. 
But hark ! — she stops — she listens — dread- 
ful tone ! 
Tis her tormentor's laugh — and no w, a groan, 
Along death-groan comes with it — can this be 



The place of mirth, the bower of revelry ? 

She enters — Holy Alia, what a sight 

Was there before her ! By the glimmering 

light 
Of the pale dawn, mix'd with the flare of 

brands 
That round lay burning, dropp'd from life- 
less hands, 
She saw" the board, in splendid mockery 

spread, 
Rich censers breathing — garlands over- 
head, — 
The urns, the cups, from which they late 

had quaff'd, 
All gold and gems, but — what had been the 

draught ? 
Oh ! who need ask, that saw those livid 

guests, 
With their swoln heads sunk blackening on 

their breasts, 
Or looking pale to heaven with glassy glare, 
As if they sought but saw no mercy there ; 
As if they felt, though poison rack'd them 

through, 
Remorse the deadlier torment of the two ! 
While some, the bravest, hardiest in the train 
Of their false Chief, who on the battle-plain 
Would have met death with transport by 

his side, 
Here mute and helpless gasp'd ; — but as 

they died, 
Look'd horrible vengeance with their eyes' 

last strain 
And clench'd the slackening hand at him in 



Dreadful it was to see the ghastly stare 
The stony look of horror and despair 
Which some of these expiring victims cast 
Upon their souls' tormentor to the last ; — 
Upon that mocking fiend, whose veil, now 

raised, 
Show'd them, as in death's agony they gazed, 
Not the long-promised light, the brow whose 

beaming 
Wa6 to come forth, all-conquering, all- 
redeeming, 
But features horribler than hell e'er tra«ed 
On its own brood ; — no Demon of the W aste ,' 









POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



No churchyard ghole, caught lingering in 

the light 
Of the blest sun, e'er blasted human sight 
With lineaments so foul, so fierce as those 
The Impostor now, in grinning mockery, 

shows — 
"There, ye wise saints, behold your Light, 

your Star — 
Ye would be dupes and victims, and ye are. 
Is it enough ? or must I, while a thrill 
Lives in your sapient bosoms, cheat you still ? 
Swear that the burning death ye feel within 
Is but the trance with which heaven's joys 

begin ; 
That this foul visage, foul as e'er disgraced 
Even monstrous man, is — after God's own 

taste ; 
And that — but see ! — ere I have half-way said 
My greetings through, the uncourteous souls 

are fled. 
Farewell, sweet spirits ! not in vain ye die, 
If Eblis loves you half so well as I. — 
Ha, my young bride ! — 'tis well — take thou 

thy seat ; 
Nay, come — no shuddering — didst thou 

never meet 
The dead before? — they graced our wed- 
ding, sweet; 
And these, my guests to-night, have brimm'd 

so true 
Their parting cups, that thou shalt pledge 

one too. 
But — how is this ? — all empty ? all drunk up ? 
Hot lips have been before thee in the cup, 
Young bride : yet stay — one precious drop 

remains, 

Enough to warm a gentle Priestess' veins ; 

Here, drink — and should thy lover's conquer- 
ing arms 
Speed hither, ere thy lip lose all its charms, 
"Give him but half this venom in thy kiss, 
And I'll forgive my haughty rival's bliss ! 

" For me — I too must die — but not like 

these 

Vile, rankling things, to fester in the breeze ; 

To have this brow in ruffian triumph shown, 

With all death's grimness added to it own, 



whom they call the Gholee Beeabaa, or Spirit of the Waste. 
They often illustrate the wildness of any sequestered tribe, 
ay Hying they are wild a* the Demon of the Waste." 



And rot to dust beneath the taunting eyes 
Of slaves, exclaiming! ' There his godship 

lies !'— 
No, cursdd race, since first my love drew 

breath, 
They've been my dupes, and shall be, eren 

in death. 
Thou seest yon cistern in the shade, — 'tis 

filled 
With burning drugs, for this last hour dis- 

till'd ;'— 
There will I plunge me, in that liquid flame — 
Fit bath to lave a dying Prophet's frame ! — 
There perish, all — ere pulse of thine shall 

fail— 
Nor leave one limb to tell mankind the tale. 
So shall my votaries, wheresoe'er they rave, 
Proclaim that Heaven took back the Saint 

it gave ; — 
But I've but vanish'd from this earth a while, 
To come again, with bright, unshrouded 

smile ! 
So shall they build me altars in their zeal, 
Where knaves chall ininistei , and fooio shall 

kneel ; 
Where Faith may mutter o'er her mystic 

spell, 
Written in blood — and Bigotry may swell 
The sail he spreads for heaven with blasts 

for hell !— 
So shall my banner through long ages be 
The rallying sign of fraud and anarchy; — 
Kings yet unborn shall rue Mokanna's name, 
And, though I die, my spirit, still the same, 
Shall walk abroad in all the stormy strife, 
And guilt, and blood, that were its bliss in 

life! 
But, hark ! their battering engine shakes the 

wall — 
Why, let it shake — thus I can brave them alL 
No trace of me shall greet them when they 

come, 
And I can trust thy faith, for — thou'lt be 

dumb. 
Now mark how readily a wretch like me 
In one bold plunge commences Deity !" — 



' " II donna du poison dans le vin a tons ses gens, et se jetu 
lui-raeine ensuite dans une cuve pleine de drogues brulanten 
et consumantes, aftn qn'il ne restSt rien de tons les membrei 
de son corpB, et qne ceni qni restoient de sa secte puiBeenl 
croire qu'il Stoit monte an cif \ ce qni ne manqna pw du 
river."— D'Herbdol. 



104 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



He sprung, and sunk as the last words 

were said — 
Quick closed the burning waters o'er his head, 
And Zelica was left — within the ring 
Of those wide walls the only living thing ; 
The only wretched one, still cursed with 

breath, 
In all that frightful wilderness of death ! 
More like some bloodless ghost, — such as, 

they tell, 
In the lone Cities of the Silent 1 dwell, 
And there, unseen of all but Alia, sit 
Each by its own pale carcase, watching it. 

But morn is up, and a fresh warfare stirs 
Throughout the camp of the beieaguerers. 
Their globes of fire (the dread artillery lent 
By Greece to conquering Mahadi) are spent; 
And now the scorpion's shaft, the quarry sent 
From high balistas, and the shielded throng 
Of soldiers swinging the huge ram along, — 
All speak the impatient Islamite's intent 
To try, at length, if tower and battlement 
And bastion'd wall be not less hard to win, 
Less tough to break down than the hearts 

within. 
First in impatience and in toil is he, 
The burning Azim — oh ! could he but see 
That monster once alive within his grasp, 
Not the gaunt lion's hug, nor boa's clasp, 
Could match that gripe of vengeance, or 

keep pace 
With the fell heartiness of hate's embrace 

Loud rings the ponderous ram against the 

walls ; 
Now shake the ramparts, now a buttress 

falls, 
But still no breach — " Once more, one 

mighty swing 
Of all your beams, together thundering !' 
There — the wall shakes — the shouting troops 

exult — 
" Quick, quick discharge your weightiest 

catapult 
Right on that spot, and Neksheb is ou 

own !"— 



1 "They have all a great reverence for bnrial-gronnds, 
which they sometimes call by the poetical name of Cities of 
the Silent, and which they people with the ghosts of the 
it-parted, who ait each at th« head of his own grave, Invisible 
to mortal eyes." 



'Tis done — the battlements come crashing 

down, 
And the huge wall, by that stroke riven in 

two, 
Yawning like some old crater rent anew, 
Shows the dim, desolate city smoking 

through ! 
But strange ! no signs of life — naught living 

seen 
Above, below — what can this stillness mean ? 
A minute's pause suspends all hearts and 

eyes — 
"In through the breach," impetuous Azim 

cries ; 
But the cool Caliph, fearful of some wile 
In this blank stillness, checks the troops a 

while. — 
Just then, a figure, with slow step, advanced 
Forth from the ruin'd walls ; and, as there 

glanced 
A sunbeam over it, all eyes could see 
The well-known Silver Veil !— " 'Tis he, 'tis 

he, 
Mokanna, and alone !" they shout arouud ; 
Young Azim from his steed springs to the 

ground — 
" Mine, Holy Caliph ! mine," he cries, " the 

task 
To crush yon daring wretch — 'tis all I ask. ' 
Eager he darts to meet the demon foe, 
Who still across wide heaps of ruin slow 
And falteringly comes, till they are near ; 
Then, with a bound, rushes on Azim's spear, 
And, casting off the veil in falling, shows — 
Oh ! 'tis his Zelica's life-blood that flows ! 

" I meant not, Azim," soothingly she said, 
As on his trembling arm she lean'd her head, 
And, looking in his face, saw anguish there 
Beyond all wounds the quivering flesh can 

bear — 
" I meant not thou shouldst have the pain of 

this ; — 
Though death with thee thus tasted is a bliss 
Thou wouldst not rob me of, didst thou but 

know 
How oft I've pray'd to God I might die so ! 
But the fiend's venom was too scant and 

slow ; — 
To linger on were maddening — and I thought 
If once that veil — nay, look not on it — caught 






POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



105 



The eyes of your fierce soldiery, I should he 
Struck by a thousand death-darts instantly. 
But this is sweeter — oh! believe me, yes-- 
I would not change this sad, but dear caress, 
This death within thy arms I would not give 
For the most smiling life the happiest live ! 
All that stood dark and drear before the eye 
Of my stray'd soul is passing swiftly by ; 
A light comes o'er me from those looks of 

love, 
Like the first dawn of mercy from above ; 
And if thy lips but tell me I'm forgiven, 
Angels will echo the blest words in heaven ! 
But live, my Azim ; — oh ! to call thee mine 
Thus once again ! my Azim — dream divine ! 
Live, if thou ever lovedst me, if to meet 
Thy Zelica hereafter would be sweet, 
Oh, live to pray for her — to bend the knee 
Morning and night before that Deity 
To whom pure lips and hearts, without a stain, 
As thine are, Azim, never breathed in vain, — 
And pray that he may pardon her, — may take 
Compassion on her soul for thy dear sake, 
And naught idmembering out her love to 

thee, 
Make her all thine, all His, eternally ! 
Go to those happy fields where first we twined 
Our youthful hearts together — every wind 
That meets thee there, fresh from the well- 
known flowers, 
Will bring the sweetness of those innocent 

hours 
Back to thy soul, and thou mayst feel again 
For thy poor Zelica as thou didst then. 
So shall thy orisons, like dew that flies 
To heaven upon the morning's sunshine, rise 
With all love's earliest ardor to the skies ! 
AikI should they — but, alas ! my senses fail — 
Oh for one minute ! — should thy prayers 

prevail — 
If pardon'd souls may from that world of 

bliss 
Reveal their joy to those they love in this, — 
I'll come to thee — in some sweet dream — 

and tell — 
O Heaven ! — I die — Dear love ! farewell, 

farewell !" 

Time fleeted— years on years had pass'd 
away, 
And few of those who, on that mournful day, 



Had stood, with pity in their eyes, to see 
The maiden's death, and the youth's agony, 
Were living still — when, by a rustic grave 
Beside the swift Amoo's transparent wave, 
An aged man, who had grown aged there 
By that lone grave, morning and night in 

prayer, 
For the last time knelt down — and, though 

the shade 
Of death hung darkening over him, there 

play'd 
A gleam of rapture on his eye and cheek 
That brighten'd even death — like the last 

streak 
Of intense glory on the horizon's brim, 
When night o'er all the rest hangs chill and 

dim, — 
His soul had seen a vision while he slept ; 
She for whose spirit he had pray'd and wept 
So many years, had come to him, all drest 
In angel smiles, and told him she was blest ! 
For this the old man breathed his thanks, 

and died. — 
And there, upon the banks of that loved tide, 
He and his Zelica sleep side by side. 



The story of the Veiled Prophet of Khc- 
rassan being ended, they were now doomed 
to hear Fadladeen's criticisms upon it. A 
series of disappointments and accidents had 
occurred to this learned chamberlain during 
the journey. In the first place, those cou- 
riers stationed, as in the reign of Shah Jehan, 
between Delhi and the western coast of 
India, to secure a constant supply of mangoes 
for the royal table, had, by some cruel irreg- 
ularity, failed in their duty ; and to eat any 
mangoes but those of Mazagong was, of 
course, impossible.' In the next place, the 
elephant, laden with his fine antique porce- 
lain, 2 had, in an unusual fit of liveliness, shat- 



1 "The celebrity of Mazagong is owing to its mangoes, 
which are certainly the best fruit I ever tasted. The parent 
tree, from which all those of this species have been grafted, 
is honored during the fruit season by a guard of sepoys ; and 
in the reign of Shah Jehan, couriers were stationed between 
Delhi and the Mahratta coast, to secure an abundant and fresh 
supply of mangoes for the royal table."— Mrs. Gmhan'a 
Journal of a Residence in India. 

» This old porcelain is found in digging, and " if it is es- 
teemed, it is not because it has acquired any new degree nl 
beauty in the earth, bat because it has retained Its ancieht 
beauty ; and thi3 alone is of great importance in China, when 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



tered the whole set to pieces — an irreparable 
lots, as many of the vessels were so exqui- 
sitely old as to have been used under tho 
Emperors Yan and Chun, who reigned many 
ages before the dynasty of Tang. His 
Koran, too, supposed to be the identical 
Dopy between the leaves of which Moham- 
med's favorite pigeon used to nestle, had 
been mislaid by his Koran-bearer three 
whole days ; not without much spiritual 
alarm to Fadladeen, who, though professing 
to hold, with other loyal and orthodox Mus- 
sulmans, that salvation could only be found 
in the Koran, was strongly suspected of be- 
lieving, in his heart, that it could only be 
found in his own particular copy of it. 
When to all these grievances is added the 
obstinacy of the cooks, in putting the pepper 
of Canara into his dishes instead of the 
einnamon of Serendib, we may easily suppose 
that he came to the task of criticism with at 
least a sufficient degree of irritability for 
the purpose. 

• " In order," said he, importantly swinging 
about his chaplet of pearls, " to convey with 
clearness my opinion of the story this young 
man has related, it is necessary to take a re- 
view of all the stories that have ever 

" My good Fadladeen !" exclaimed the Prin- 
cess, interrupting him, " we really do not 
deserve that you should give yourself so 
much trouble. Your opinion of the poem 
we have just heard will, T have no doubt, be 
abundantly edifying, without any further 
waste of your valuable erudition. " " If that 
be all," replied the critic, — evidently morti- 
fied at not being allowed to show how much 
he knew about everything but the subject 
immediately before him, — " if that be all that 
is required, the matter is easily despatched." 
He then proceeded to analyze the poem, in 
that strain (so well known to the unfortunate 
bards of Delhi) whose censures were an in- 
fliction from which few recovered, and whose 
very praises were like the honey extracted 
from the bitter flowers of the aloe. The chief 



they give large suras for the 6isallest vessels which were used 
■nder the Emperors Tan and Chun, who reigned many ages 
before the dyuasty of Tang, at which time porcelain began to 
M used by the Eape.ois," (about the year 4J2.) —Ihinn's 
eoliectiot. . oj Curious Observations, Ac.,— a bad translation of 
lome parts of the " I.-ettres Edifiantes et Curieuses" of the 
Missionary Jesuit*. 



last happily 
lis, you will 
; story; and 

ant t^lf^ nrt 



personages of the 6tory were, if he right!, 
understood them, an ill-favored gentlema^ 
with a veil over his face ; — a young lady, 
whose reason went and came according as it 
suited the poet's convenience to be sensible 
or otherwise ; — and a youth, in one of those 
hideous Bucharian bonnets, who took the 
aforesaid gentleman in a veil for a Divinity. 
" From such materials," said he, " what can 
be expected ? — after rivalling each other in 
long speeches and absurdities, through some 
thousands of lines as indigestible as the fil- 
berds of Berdan, our friend in the veil jumps 
into a tub of aquafortis ; the young lady dies 
in a set speech, whose only recommendation 
is, that it is her last ; and the lover lives on 
to a good old age, for the laudable purpose 
of seeing her ghost, which he at last happily 
accomplishes and expires. This, 
allow, is a fair summary of the 
if Nasser, the Arabian merchant, told no 
better, our Holy Prophet (to whom be all 
honor and glory !) had no need to be jealous 
of his abilities for story-telling.'" 

With respect to the style, it was worthy 
of the matter: it had not even those politic 
contrivances of structure which make up for 
the commonness of the thoughts by the pe- 
culiarity of the manner, nor that stately 
poetical phraseology by which sentiments 
mean in themselves, like the blacksmith's 
apron" converted into a banner, are so easily 
gilt and embroidered into consequence. Then 
as to the versification, it was, to say no 
worse of it, execrable ; it had neither the 
copious flow of Ferdosi, the sweetness of 
Hafiz, nor the sententious march of Sadi; 
but appeared to him, in the uneasy heavinese 
of its movements, to have been modelled 
upon the gait of a very tired dromedary. 
The licences, too, in which it indulged were 
unpardonable ; — for instance, this line, and 
the poem abounded with such — 

" Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream." 



1 " La lecture de ces fables plaisoit si fort &ax Arabes, que, 
quand Mohammed les entretenoit de l'Histoire de l'Anciep 
Testament, ils les meprisoient. Ini disant que celles que Nas- 
ser leur racontoient Gtoicnt beaucoup plus belles." Cett* 
preference attira a Nas6er la malediction de Mohammed et d« 
tons ses disciples. 

' The blacksmith Qao, who successfully resisted the tyrant 
Tohak, and whose apron became the roval standard of Persia. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



107 



" What critic that can count," said Fadla- 
deen, " and has his full complement of fingers 
to count withal, would tolerate for an instant 
such syllabic superfluities ?" He here looked 
round, and discovered that most of his audi- 
ence were asleep; while the glimmering 
lamps seemed inclined to follow their exam- 
ple. It became necessary, therefore, how- 
ever painful to himself, to put an end to his 
valuable animadversions for the present, and 
he accordingly concluded, with an air of 
dignified candor, thus : — " Notwithstanding 
the observations which I have thought it my 
duty to make, it is by no means my wish to 
discourage the young man ; — so far from it, 
indeed, that if he will but totally alter his 
style of writing and thinking, I have very 
little doubt that I shall be vastly pleased 
with him." 

Some days elapsed, after this harangue of 
the Great Chamberlain, before Lalla Rookh 
could venture to ask for another story. The 
youth was still a welcome guest in the pavil- 
ion, — to one heart, perhaps, too dangerously 
welcome ; but all mention of poetry was, as 
if by common consent, avoided. Though 
none of the parcyhad much respect for Fad- 
ladeen, yet his censures, thus magisterially 
delivered, evidently made an impression on 
them all. The Poet himself, to whom criti- 
cism was quite a new operation, (being 
wholly unknown in that Paradise of the 
Indies — Cashmere,) felt the shock as it is 
generally felt at first, till use has made it 
more tolerable to the patient ; the ladies be- 
gan to suspect that they ought not to be 
pleased, and seemed to conclude that there 
must have been much good sense in what 
Fadladeen said, from its having set them all 
so soundly to sleep ; while the self-complacent 
chamberlain was left to triumph in the idea 
of having, for the hundred and fiftieth time 
in his life, extinguished a poet. Lalla- Rookh 
alone — and Love knew why — persisted in 
being delighted with all she had heard, and 
in resolving to hear more as speedily as pos- 
sible. Her manner, however, of first return- 
ing to the subject was unlucky. It was 
while they rested during the heat of noon 
near a fountain, on which some hand had 
rudely traced those well-known words from 



the Garden of Sadi, — "Many, like me, hav« 
viewed this fountain, but they are gone, and 
their eyes are closed forever !" — that she 
took occasion, from the melancholy beauty 
of this passage, to dwell upon the charms of 
poetry in general. "It is true," she said, 
" few poets can imitate that sublime bird 1 
which flies always in the air, and never 
touches the earth ; — it is only once in many 
ages a genius appears, whose words, like 
those on the Written Mountain, 3 last for- 
ever; — but still there are some, as delightful 
perhaps, though not so wonderful, who, if 
not stars over our head, are at least flowers 
along our path, and whose sweetness of the 
moment we ought gratefully to inhale, with- 
out calling upon them for a brightness and 
a durability beyond their nature. In short," 
continued she, blushing, as if conscious of 
being caught in an oration, " it is quite cruel 
that a poet cannot wander through his re- 
gions of enchantment, without having a critic 
forever, like the Old Man of the Sea, (Sinbad,) 
upon his back !" Fadladeen, it was plain, 
took this last luckless allusion to himself, 
and would treasure it up in his mind as a 
whetstone for his next criticism. A sudden 
silence ensued ; and the Princess, glancing a 
look at Feramorz, saw plainly she must wait 
for a more courageous moment. 

But the glories of Nature, and her wild, 
fragrant airs, playing freshly over the cur- 
rent of youthful spirits, will soon heal even 



i The huma. a bird peculiar to the East. It is supposed to 
fly constantly in the air, and never touch the ground. It ii 
looked upon as a bird of happy omen ; and that every head it 
overshades will in time wear a crown.— Richardson. In thry 
terms of alliance made by Fuzzel Oola Khan with Hyder in 
1760, one of the stipulations was, " that he should have the 
distinction of two honorary attendants standing Deside him, 
holding fans composed of the feathers of the huma^ according 
to the practice of his family."— Wilke's South of India. lie 
adds in a note:— "The huma is a fabulous bird. The head 
over which its shadow once passes will assuredly be circled 
with a crown. The splendid little bird suspended over the 



To the pilgrims to Mount Sinai we mnst attribute the in- 
scriptions, figures, &c, on those rocks, which have front' 
thence acquired the name of the Written Mountain."— Volney. 
M. Gebelin and others have been at much pains to attach some 
mysterious and important meaning to theBe inscriptions ; but 
Niebuhr, as well as Volney, thinks that they must have been 
executed at idle hours by the travellers to Mount Sinai, " who 
were satisfied with cutting the unpolished rock with tmj 
pointed instrument ; adding to their names, and the date of 
their journeys, some rude flgnros, which Bespeak the hand of 
a people but little skilled in the arts."— Nitbuhr. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



deeper wounds than the dull Fadladeens of 
this world can inflict. In an evening or two 
after, they came to the small Valley of Gar- 
dens, which had been planted by order of 
the Emperor for his favorite sister Rochinara, 
during their progress to Cashmere, some 
years before ; and never was there a more 
sparkling assemblage of sweets, since the 
Gulzar-e-Irem, or Rose-bower of Irem. 
Every precious flower was there to be found 
that poetry, or love, or religion has ever 
consecrated — from the dark hyacinth, to 
which Ilafi compares his mistress's hair, to 
the Cumaldta, by whose rosy blossoms the 
heaven of Iudra is scented.' As they sat in 
the cool fragrance of this delicious spot, and 
Lalla Rookh remarked that she could fancy 
it the abode of that flower-loving nymph 
whom they worship in the temples of Kathay, 
or of one of those Peris, — those beautiful 
creatures of the air, who live upon perfumes, 
and to whom a place like this might make 
some amends for the Paradise they have 
lost. — the young Poet, in whose eyes she 
appeared, while she spoke, to be one of the 
bright spiritual creatures she was describing, 
said, hesitatingly, that he remembered a 
story of a Peri, which, if the princess had no 
objection, he would venture to relate. " It 
is," said he, with an appealing look to Fad- 
tadeeu, " in a lighter and humbler strain than 
the other ;" then, striking a few careless but 
melancholy chords on his kitar, he thus 
began : — 



PARADISE AND THE PERI. 

Oxb morn a Peri at the gate 
Of Eden stood disconsolate ; 
And as she listen'd to the springs 

Of life within, like music flowing, 
And caught the light upon her wings 

Through the half-open portal glowing 



' " The Camalata (called by Linnxus, Jpomaa) is the most 
beautiful of its order both in the color and form of its leaves 
and flowers; its elegant blossoms are 'celestial rosy red, 
love's proper hue, 1 and have justly procured it the name of 
Curualata. or Love's Creeper." — Sir W. Jones. 

" Camalata may also mean a mythological plant, by which 
nil desires are granted to such as Inhabit the heaven of Indra ; 
and if ever flower was worthy of Paradise, it is onr charming 
Ipomsa." — lb. 



She wept to think her recreant race 
Should e'er have lost that glorious place ! 

"How happy," exclaim'd this child of air, 
" Are the holy spirits who wander there, 

'Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall;. 
Though mine are the gardens of earth and 

sea, 
And the stars themselves have flowers for me, 

One blossom of heaven out-blooms them alii 

Though sunny the lake of cool Cashmere, 
With its plane-tree Isle reflected clear,' 

And sweetly the founts of that valley fall; 
Though bright are the waters of Siug-su-hay, 
And the golden floods that thitherward stray,' 
Yet — oh, 'tis only the blest can say 

How the waters of heaven outshine them 
all! 

Go, wing thy flight from star to star, 
From world to luminous world, as far 

As the universe spreads its flaming wall ; 
Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, 
And multiply each through endless years, 

One minute of heaven is worth them all J* 

The glorious Angel, who was keeping 
The Gates of Light, beheld her weeping ; 
And, as he nearer drew and listen'd 
To her sad song, a tear-drop glisten'd 
Within his eyelids, like the spray 

From Eden's fountain, when it lies 
On the blue flower, which — Brahmins sa* 

Blooms nowhere but in Paradise !* 
" Nymph of a fair but erring line !" 
Gently he said — " One hope is thine. 
'Tis written in the Book of Fate, 

The Peri yet may be forgiven 
Who brings to this eternal gate 

The gift that is most dear to Heavt I 
Go, seek it, and redeem thy sin; — 
'Tis sweet to let the pardon'd in 1" 

Rapidly as comets run 

To the embraces of the sun ; — 






* Numerous small islands emerge from th uke of Cait 



» " The Altan Kol or Golden River of Tibf 
of gold in its sands."— Pinkerton. 

* "The Brahmins of this province insist ' Ml 
pac flowers only in Paradise." — Sir W. Jot i. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Fleeter than the starry brands 
Flung at night from angel-hands' 
At those dark and daring sprites, 
Who would climb the empyreal heights, 
Down the blue vault the Peri flies, 

And, lighted earthward by a glance 
That just then broke from morning's eyes, 

Hung hovering o'er our world's expanse. 

But whither shall the spirit go 

To find this gift for Heaven? — "I know 

The wealth," she cries, " of every urn, 

In which unnumber'd rubies burn, 

Beneath the pillars of Chilminar ;' 

I know where the Isles of Perfume are' 

Many a fathom down in the sea, 

To the south of sun-bright Araby ;' — 

I know, too, where the Genii hid 

Thejewell'd cup of their king Jamshid,* 

With life's elixir sparkling high — 

But gifts like these are not for the sky. 

Where was there ever a gem that shone 

Like the steps of Alla's wonderful throne ? 

And the drops of life — oh ! what would they be 

Id the boundless deep of eternity ?" 

While thus she mused, her pinions fann'd 
The air of that sweet Indian land, 
Whose air is balm ; whose ocean spreads 
O'er coral banks and amber beds ;" 
Whose mountains, pregnant by the beam 
Of the warm sun, with diamonds teem; 
Whose rivulets are like rich brides, 
Lovely, with gold beneath their tides ; 



1 "The Mohammedans suppose that falling stare are the 
firebrands wherewith the good angels drive away the had 
when they approach too near the empyrenm or verge of the 
heavens." 

s "The Forty Pillars— so the Persians call the ruins of Per- 
sepolis. It is imagined by them that this palace, and the 
edifices at Baalbec, were bnilt by Genii, for the purpose of 
hiding in their subterraneous caverns immense treasures, 
which still remain there." 

* Diodorus mentions the Isle of Panchaia, to the south of 
Arabia Felix, where there was a temple to Jupiter. This is- 
land, or rather cluster of isles, has disappeared—" sunk (says 
Grandore) in the abyss made by the fire beneath their foun- 
dations."— Voyage to the Indian Ocean. 

* The Isles of Panchaia. 

• " The cup of Jamshid, discovered, they say, when digging 
for the foundations of PerBepolis." 

• " Like the Sea of India, whose bottom is rich with pearls 
and ambergris, whose mountains on the coast are stored with 
gold and precious stones, whose gulfs breed creatures that 
yield ivory, and among the plants of whose shores are ebony, 
red wood, and the wood of Hairzan, aloes, camphor, cloves, 
landal-wood, and all other .spices and aromatics ; where par- 
rots and peacocks are birds of the foreBt, and musk and civet 
»ro collected upon the lands."— Travels of two Mohammedans. 



Whose sandal-groves and bowers of spice 
Might be a Peri's Paradise ! 
But crimson now her rivers ran 

With human blood— the smell of death 
Came reeking from those spicy bowers, 
And man, the sacrifice of man, 

Mingled his taint with every breath 
Upwafted from the innocent flowers ! 
Land of the Sun ! what foot invades 
Thy pagods and thy pillar'd shades' — 
Thy cavern shrines and idol stones, 
Thy monarchs and their thousand thrones V 
'Tis he of Gazna" — fierce in wrath 

He comes, and India's diadems 
Lie scatter'd in his ruinous path. — 

His bloodhounds he adorns with gems, 
Torn from the violated necks 

Of many a young and loved Sultana ;" 

Maidens within their pure Zenana, 

Priests in the very fane, he slaughters, 
And chokes up with the glittering wrecks 

Of golden shrines the sacred waters ! 

Downward the Peri turns her gaze, 
And through the war-field's bloody haze. 
Beholds a youthful warrior stand, 

Alone, beside his native river, — 
The red blade broken in his hand 

And the last arrow in his quivei. 
" Live," said the Conqueror, " live to share 
The trophies and the crowns I bear !" 
Silent that youthful warrior stood — 
Silent he pointed to the flood 
All crimson with his country's blood, 
Then sent his last remaining dart, 
For answer, to the invader's heart. 
False flew the shaft, though pointed well ; 
The tyrant lived, the here fell ! — 
Yet mark'd the Peri where he lay, 

And when the rush of war was past, 
Swiftly descending on a ray 

. Of morning light, she caught the last — 



T " The bended twigs take root, and daughters grow, 
About the mother-tree, a pillar'd shade."— Milton. 

8 " With this immense treasure Mamood returned to 
Ghizni, and in the year 400 prepared a magnificent festival, 
where he displayed to the people his wealth iu golden throaM 
and other ornaments, in a great plain without the city of 
Ghizni."— Ferishta. 

9 " Mahmoud of Gazna, or Ghizni. who conquered India in 
the beginning of the eleventh century." 

10 "It is reported that the hunting equipage of the Sultan 
Mahmoud was* so magnificent, that he kept four hundred grey- 
hounds and bloodhounds, each of which w ore a coLsr set wltll 
jewels, and a covering edged with go.'d and pearus.' 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Last glorious drop his heart bad shed, 
Before its free-born spirit fled ! 

" Be this," she cried, as she wing'd her flight, 
" My welcome gift at the Gates of Ligbt. 
Though foul are the drops that oft distil 

On the field of warfare, blood like this, 

For Liberty shed, so holy is, 1 
It would not stain the purest rill 

That sparkles among the bowers of bliss ! 
Oh ! if there be, on this earthly sphere, 
A boon, an offering Heaven holds dear, 
Tis the last libation Liberty draws 
From the heart that bleeds and breaks in 



" Sweet," said the Angel, as she gave 

The gift into his radiant hand, 
" Sweet is our welcome of the brave 

Who die thus for their native land. — 
But see — alas ! — the crystal bar 
Of Eden moves not — holier far 
Than even this drop the boon must be 
That opes the gates of heaven for thee !" 

Her first fond hope of Eden blighted, 

Now among Afric's Lunar Mountains,' 
Far to the south, the Peri lighted ; 

And sleek'd her plumage at the fountains 
Of that Egyptian tide, whose birth 
Is hidden from the sons of earth, 
Deep in those solitary woods, 
Where oft the Genii of the Floods 
Dance round the cradle of their Nile, 
And hail the new-born Giant's smile !* 
Thence, over Egypt's palmy groves, 
Her grots, and sepulchres of kings,* 



1 Objections may be made to my nee of the word liberty, in 
this, and more especially in the story that follows it, as totally 
inapplicable to any state of things that has ever existed in the 
East ; but though I cannot, of course, mean to employ it in 
that enlarged and noble sense which is so well understood at 
the present day, and, I grieve to say, so little acted upon, yet 
it is no disparagement to the word to apply it to that national 
independence, that freedom from the interference and dicta- 
tion of foreigners, without which, indeed, no liberty of any 
kind can exist, and for which both Hindoos and Persians 
fought against their Mussulman invaders with, in many cases, 
a bravery that deserved mnch better success. 

' " The Mountains of the Moon, or the Monies Lunce of an- 
tiquity, at the foot of which the Nile is supposed to arise. " 

" Sometimes called," says Jackson, " Jibbel Knrarie, or the 
White or Lunar-colored Mountains ; so a white horse is called 
by the Arabians a moon-colored horse." 

• " The Nile, which the Abyssinians know by the name of 
Abey and Alawy, or the Giant." 

* Tidi Perry's " ^ iew of the Levant," for an account of the 



The exiled Spirit sighing roves ; 
And now hangs listening to the doves 
In warm Rosetta's vale' — now loves 

To watch the moonlight on the wings 
Of the white pelicans that break 
The azure calm of Mceris Lake.' 
'Twas a fair scene — a land more bright 

Never did mortal eye behold ! 
Who could have thought, that saw this night 

Those valleys and their fruits of gold 
Basking in heaven's serenest light ; — 
Those groups of lovely date-trees bending 

Languidly their leaf-crown'd heads, 
Like youthful maids, when sleep descending 

Warns them to their silken beds ;' — 
Those virgin lilies, all the night 

Bathing their beauties in the lake, 
That they may rise more fresh and bright 

When their beloved Sun's awake ; — 
Those ruin'd shrines and towers that seem 
The relics of a splendid dream ; 

Amid whose fairy loneliness 
Naught but the lapwing's cry is heard, 
Naught seen but (when the shadows, flitting 
Fast from the moon, unsheath its gleam) 
Some purple-wing'd Sultana 8 sitting 

Upon a column, motionless 
And glittering, like an idol-bird ! — 
Who could have thought, that there, even 

there, 
Amid those scenes so still and fair, 
The Demon of the Plague hath cast 
From his hot wing a deadlier blast, 
More mortal far than ever came 
From the red desert's sands of flame ! 
So quick, that every living thing 
Of human shape, touch'd by his wing, 
Like plants where the simoom hath pass'd, 
At once falls back and withering ! 
The sun went down on many a brow, 

Which, full of bloom and freshness then, 
Is rankling in the pesthouse now, 

And ne'er will feel that sun again ! 






sepulchres in Upper Thebes, and the numberless grots, car- 
ered all over with hieroglyphics, in the mountains of Upper 
Egypt. 

» " The orchards of Rosetta are filled with tnrtle-dovee." 

• Savary mentions the pelicans upon Lake Mceris. 

7 "The superb date-tree, whose head languidly recline* 
like that of a handsome woman overcome with sleep/' 

» " That beautiful bird, which, from the statelinesa oj U 
port, as well as the brilliancy of its colors, baa obtained tk* 
title of Sultana." 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



And oh ! to see the unhuried heaps 
On which the lonely moonlight sleeps — 
The very vultures turn away, 
And sicken at so foul a prey ! 
Only the fierce hysena stalks' 
Throughout the city's desolate walks 
At midnight, and his carnage plies — 

Woe to the half-dead wretch, who meets 
The glaring of those large blue eyes 

Amid the darkness of the streets ! 

" Poor race of men !" said the pitying spirit, 

" Dearly ye pay for your primal fall — 
Same flowerets of Eden ye still inherit, 

But the trail of the serpent is over them 
all !" 
She wept — the air grew pure and clear 

Around her, as the bright drops ran ; 
For there's a magic in each tear 

Such kindly spirits weep for man ! 

Just then, beneath some orange-trees, 
Whose fruit and blossoms in the breeze 
Were wantoning together, free, 
Like age at play with infancy — 
Beneath that fresh and springing bower, 

Close by the lake, she heard the moan 
Of one who, at this silent hour, 

Had thither stolen to die alone. 
One who in life, where'er he moved, 

Drew after him the hearts of many ; 
Yet now, as though he ne'er were loved, 

Dies here, unseen, unwept by any ! 
None to watch near him — none to slake 

The fire that in his bosom lies, 
With even a sprinkle from that lake 

Which shines so cool before his eyes. 
No voice, well known through many a day, 

To speak the last, the parting word, 
Which, when all other sounds decay, 

Is still like distant music heard ;— 
That tender farewell on the shore 
Of this rude world, when all is o'er. 



1 Jackson, speaking of the plague that occurred in West 
Barbary when he was there, says, " The birds of the air fled 
away from the abodes of men. The hyaenas, on the contrary, 
Tlsited the cemeteries," Ac. 

41 Gondar was full of hyaenas from the time it turned dark till 
the dawn of day, seeking the different pieces of slaughtered 
carcasses, which this cruel and unclean people expose in the 
streets without burial, and who firmly believe that these ani- 
mals are Falashta from the neighboring mountains, trans- 
formed by magic, and come down to eat human flesh in the 
lark is safety."— Urwx. 



Which cheers the spirit, ere its bark 
Puts off into the unknown dark. 

Deserted youth ! one thought alone 

Shed joy around his soul in death — 
That she, whom he for years had known, 
And loved, and might have call'd his own, 
Was safe from this foul midnight'i 
breath ; — 
Safe in her father's princely halls, 
Where the cool air from fountains falls, 
Freshly perfumed by many a brand 
Of the sweet wood from India's land, 
Were pure as she whose brow they fann'd. 

But see, who yonder comes by stealth, 

This melancholy bower to seek, 
Like a young envoy sent by Health, 

With rosy gifts upon her cheek ? 
'Tis she — far off, through moonlight dim, 

He knew his own betrothed bride, 
She who would rather die with him 

Than live to gain the world beside ! — 
Her arms are round her lover now, 
His livid cheek to hers she presses, 
And dips, to bind his burning brow, 

In the cool lake, her loosen'd tresses. 
Ah ! once, how little did he think 
An hour would come when he should shrink 
With horror from that dear embrace, 

Those gentle arms, that were to him 
Holy as is the cradling place 

Of Eden's infant cherubim ! 
And now he yields — now turns away, 
Shuddering as if the venom lay 
All in those proffer'd lips alone — 
Those lips that, then so fearless grown, 
Never until that instant came 
Near his unask'd, or without shame. 
" Oh ! let me only breathe the air, 

The blessed air that's breathed by thee, 
And, whether on its wings it bear 

Healing or death, 'tis sweet to me ! 
There, — drink my tears, while yet they fall,— 

Would that my bosom's blood were balm, 
And, well thou knowst, I'd shed it all, 

To give thy brow one minute's calm. 
Nay, turn not from me that dear face — 

Am I not thine — thy own loved bride— 
The one, the chosen one, whose place 
In life or death is by thy side ? 



112 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Thinkst thou that she, whose only light 

In this dim world from thee hath shone, 
Could bear the long, the cheerless night 

That must he hers when thou art gone ? 
That I can live, and let thee go, 
Who art my life itself? — No, no — 
When the stem dies, the leaf that grew 
Out of its heart must perish too ! 
Then turn to me, my own love, turn, 
Before like thee I fade and burn; 
Cling to these yet cool lips, and share 
The last pure life that lingers there !" 
She fails — she sinks — as dies the lamp 
In charnel-airs or cavern-damp, 
So quickly do his baleful sighs 
Quench all the sweet light of her eyes ! 
One struggle — and his pain is past — 

Her lover is no longer living ! 
One kiss the maiden gives, one last, 

Long kiss, which she expires in giving ! 

" Sleep," said the Peri, as softly she stole 
The farewell sigh of that vanishing soul, 
As true as e'er warm'd a woman's breast — 
" Sleep on — in visions of odor rest, 
In balmier airs than ever yet stirr'd 
The enchanted pile of that holy bird 
Who sings at the last his own death lay, 1 
And in music and perfume dies away !" 

Thus saying, from her lips she spread 

Unearthly breathings through the place, 
And shook her sparkling wreath, and shed 

Such lustre o'er each paly face, 
That like two lovely saints they seem'd 

Upon the eve of doomsday taken 
From their dim graves, in odor sleeping ; — 

While that benevolent Peri beam'd 
Like their good angel, calmly keeping 

Watch o'er them till their souls would 
waken ! 

But morn is blushing in the sky ; 

Again the Peri soars above, 
Bearing to Heaven that precious sigh 

Of pure, self-sacrificing love. 



• "In the East they suppose the Phcenix to have fifty orifi- 
ces it his bill, which are continued to his tail ; and that, after 
living one thousand year6, he builds himself a funeral pile, 
lings a melodious air of different harmonies through his fifty 
Organ pipes, flaps his wings with a velocity which sets fire to 
Ike wood, and consumes himself." 



High throbb'd her heart, with hope elate, 

The Elysian palm she soon shall win, 
For the bright spirit at the gate 

Smiled as she gave that offering in ; 
And she already hears the trees 

Of Eden, with their crystal bells 
Ringing in that ambrosial breeze 

That from the throne of Alia swells; 
And she can see the starry bowls 

That lie around that lucid lake, 
Upon whose banks admitted souls 

Their first sweet draught of glory take !* 

But ah ! even Peris' hopes are vain— 

Again the Fates forbade, again 

The immortal barrier closed — " Not yet," 

The Angel said, as, with regret, 

He shut from her that glimpse of glory — 

" True was the maiden, and her story, 

Written in light o'er Alla's head, 

By seraph eyes shall long be read. 

But, Peri, see — the crystal bar 

Of Eden moves not — holier far 

Than even this sigh the boon must be 

That opes the Gates of Heaven for thee." 

Now, upon Syria's land of roses' 
Softly the light of Eve reposes, 
And, like a glory, the broad sun 
Hangs over sainted Lebanon ; 
Whose head in wintry grandeur towera, 

And whitens with eternal sleet, 
While summer, in a vale of flowers, 

Is sleeping rosy at his fpet. 

To one who look'd from upper air 
O'er all the enchanted regions there, 
How beauteous must have been the glow, 
The life, the sparkling from below ! 
Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks 
Of golden melons on their banks, 
More golden where the sun-light falls j — 
Gay lizards, glittering on the walls* 
Of ruin'd shrines, busy and bright 



> On the shores of a quadrangular lake stand a thousand 
goblets, made of stars, out of which souls predestined to enjoy 
felicity drink the crystal wave.— From Chateaubriand's " Mo- 
hammedan Paradise," in his Beauties of Christianity. 

' Sichardson thinks that Syria had its name from Snri, a 
beautiful and delicate species of rose for which that country 
has been always famous ;— hence, Suristan, the Land of Bosea, 

« " The number of lizards I saw one day in the great court 
of the Temple of the Sun at Baalbec amounted tc many tnoo 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



As they were all alive with light ; 

And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks 

Of pigeons, settling on the rocks, 

With their rich restless wings, that gleam 

Variously in the crimson beam 

Of the warm west, — as if inlaid 

With brilliants from the mine, or made 

Of tearless rainbows, such as span 

The unclouded skies of Peristan ! 

And then, the mingling sounds that come, 

Of shepherd's ancient reed, 1 with hum 

Of the wild bees of Palestine, 

Banqueting through the flowery vales ; — 
And, Jordan, those sweet banks of thine, 

And woods, so full of nightingales ! 3 

But naught can charm the luckless Peri ; 
Her soul is sad — her wings are weary — 
Joyless she sees the sun look down 
On that great temple, once his own, 3 
Whose lonely columns stand sublime, 

Flinging their shadows from on high, 
Like dials, which the wizard, Time, 

Had raised to count his ages by ! 

Yet haply there may lie conceal'd 
Beneath those chambers of the Sun, 

Some amulet of gems, anneal'd 

In upper fires, some tablet seal'd 
With the great name of Solomon, 
Which, spell'd by her illumined eyes, 

May teach her where, beneath the moon, 

In earth or ocean lies the boon, 

The charm, that can restore so soon 
An erring spirit to the skies. 

Cheer'd by this hope she bends her thither ; — 
Still laughs the radiant eye of heaven, 
Nor have the golden bowers of even 

In the rich west begun to wither ; — 

When, o'er the vale of Baalbec winging 
Slowly, she sees a child at play, 

Among the rosy wild-flowers singing, 
As rosy and as wild as they ; 

Chasing, with eager hands and eyes, 



■ands ; the ground, the walls, and stones of the ruined build- 
•ugt were covered with them."— Bruce. 

1 "The syrinx, or Pan'6 pipe, is still a pastoral instrument 
la Syria " 

3 " The river Jordan is on both sides beset with little, thick, 
and pleasant, woods, among which thousands of nightingales 
warble all together."— Thevenot. 

• Tho Temple of the Sun at Baalbec. 



The beautiful blue damsel-flies,* 
That flutter'd round the jasmine stems, 
Like winged flowers or flying gems : — 
And, near the boy, who tired with play, 
Now nestling 'mid the roses lay, 
She saw a wearied man dismount 

From his hot steed, and on the brink 
Of a small imaret's rustic fount' 

Impatient fling him down to drink. 
Then swift his haggard brow he turn'd 

To the fair child, who fearless sat, 
Though never yet hath day-beam burn'd 

Upon a brow more fierce than that, — 
Sullenly fierce — a mixture dire, 
Like thunder-clouds, of gloom and fire L 
In which the Peri's eye could read 
Dark tales of many a ruthless deed ; 
The ruin'd maid — the shrine profaned — 
Oaths broken — and the threshold stain'd 
With blood of guests ! — there written, all, 
Black as the damning drops that fall 
From the denouncing Angel's pen, 
Ere Mercy weeps them out again ! 

Yet tranquil now that man of crime 
(As if the balmy evening-time 
Soften'd his spirit) look'd and lay, 
Watching the rosy infant's play : — 
Though still, whene'er his eye by chance 
Fell on the boy's, its lurid glance 

Met that unclouded, joyous gaze 
As torches, that have burn'd all night 
Through some impure and godless rite, 

Encounter morning's glorious rays. 

But hark ! the vesper-call to prayer, 

As slow the orb of daylight sets, 
Is rising sweetly on the air, 

From Syria's thousand minarets ! 
The boy has started from the bed' 
Of flowers, where he had laid his head, 
And down upon the fragrant sod 



4 "Ton behold there a considerable number of a remarkable 
species of beautiful insects, the elegance o. wnose appear- 
ance, and their attire, procured for them the name of Dam 
Bels." 

» Imaret " hospice ou on loge et nourrit, gratis, leg pelerine 
pendant trois jours." — Toderini. 

« " Such Turks as at the common hours of prayer are on the 
road, or so employed as not to find convenience to attend the 
mosques, are Btill obliged to execute that duty : nor are they 
ever known to fail, whatever business they are then about, 
bnt pray immediately when tie hour alarms them, in tha» 
very place they chance to stand on."— Aaron BilTs Trtfrl*. 






POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Kneels, with his forehead to the south, 
Lisping the eternal name of God 

From purity's own cherub mouth, 
And looking, while his hands and eyes 
Are lifted to the glowing skies, 
Like a stray babe of Paradise, 
Just lighted on that flowery plain, 
And seeking for its home again ! 

Oh 'twas a sight — that heaven — that child — 
A scene which might have well beguiled 
Even haughty Eblis of a sigh 
For glories lost and peace gone by ! 

And how felt he, the wretched man 
Reclining there — while memory ran 
'O'er many a year of guilt and strife, 
Flew o'er the dark flood of his life, 
Nor found one sunny resting-place, 
Nor brought him back one branch of grace! 
: ' There was a time," he said, in mild, 
Heart-humbled tones, "thou blessed child! 
When young, and haply pure as thou, 

I look'd and pray'd like thee ; but now — " 
He hung his head — each nobler aim 

And hope and feeling, which had slept 
From boyhood's hour, that instant came 

Fresh o'er him, and he wept — he wept ! 

Blest tears of soul-felt penitence ! 

In whose benign, redeeming flow 
Is felt the first, the only sense 

Of guiltless joy that guilt can know. 
" There's a drop," said the Peri, " that down 

from the moon 
Falls through the withering airs of June 
Upon Egypt's land, 1 of so healing a power, 
So balmy a virtue, that even in the hour 
That drop descends, contagion dies, 
And health reanimates earth and skies ! — 
Oh, is it not thus, thou man of sin, ■ 

The precious tears of repentance fall ? 
Though foul thy fiery plagues within, 

One heavenly drop hath dispell'd them 
all !" 
And now — behold him kneeling there 
By the child's side, in humble prayer, 
While the same sunbeam shines upon 



1 The Nucta, or Miraculous Drop, which falls in Egypt pre- 
cisely ou St. John's Day, in Juue, and is supposed to have the 
ifiect of stepping the plague. 



The guilty and the guiltless one, 

And hymns of joy proclaim through heaven 

The triumph of a soul forgiven ! 

'Twas when the golden orb had set, 
While on their knees they liriger'd yet, 
There fell a light, more lovely far 
Than ever came from sun or star, 
Upon the tear that, warm and meek, 
Dew'd that repentant sinner's cheek : 
To mortal eye this light might seem 
A northern flash or meteor beam — 
But well the enraptured Peri knew 
'Twas a bright smile the Angel threw 
From heaven's gate, to hail that tear 
Her harbinger of glory near ! 

" Joy, joy forever ! my task is done — 
The Gates are'pass'd, and heaven is won ! 
Oh. ! am I not happy ? I am, I am — 

To thee, sweet Eden ! how dark and sad 
Are the diamond turrets of Shadukiam,* 

And the fragrant bowers of -Amberabad ! 

" Farewell, ye odors of earth, that die, 
Passing away like a lover's sigh ; — 
My feast is now of the Tooba tree, 3 
Whose scent is the breath of Eternity ! 

" Farewell, ye vanishing flowers, that shone 
In my fairy wreath, so bright and brief, — 

Oh, what are the brightest that e'er have 
blown, 

To the lote-tree spring by Alla's throne, 4 
Whose flowers have a soul in every leaf! 

Joy, joy forever ! — my task is done — 

The gates are pass'd, and heaven is won !" 



" And this," said the Great Chamberlain, 
" is poetry ! — this flimsy manufacture of the 
brain, which, in comparison with the lofty 
and durable monuments of genius, is as the 



s The Country of Delight^the name of a province in the 
kingdom of Jinnistan or Fairy Land, the capital of which is 
called " The City of Jewels." Amberabad is another of the 
cities of Jinnistan. 

» " The tree Tooba, that stands in Paradise, in the palace of 
Mohammed."— Touba signifies eternal happiness. 

* Mohammed is described, in the fifty-third chapter of the 
Koran, as having seen the angel Gabriel " by the lote-tree, 
Deyond which there is no passing : near it is the Garden of 
Eternal Abode." This tree, say the commentators, stands is 
the seventh heaven, on Ihe right hand of the throne of God. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



115 



gold filigree-work of Zamara beside the eter- 
nal architecture of Egypt !" After this 
gorgeous sentence, which, with a few more 
of the same kind, Fadladeen kept by him for 
■rare and important occasions, he proceeded 
to the anatomy of the short poem just re- 
cited. The lax and easy kind of metre in 
which it was written ought to be denounced, 
he said, as one of the leading causes of the 
alarming growth of poetry in our times. If 
some check were not gi-ven to this lawless 
facility, we should soon be overrun by a race 
of bards as numerous and as shallow as the 
hundred and twenty thousand streams of 
Basra. ' They who succeeded in this style 
deserved chastisement for their very success ; 
— as warriors have been punished, even after 
gaining a victory, because they had taken 
the liberty of gaining it in an irregular or 
unestablished manner. What, then, was to 
be said to those who failed ? — to those who 
presumed, as in the present lamentable in- 
stance, to imitate the licence and ease of the 
bolder sons of song, without any of that 
grace or vigor which gave a dignity even to 
negligence; — who, like them, flung the 
jereed' carelessly, but not like them, to the 
mark ; — " and who," said he, raising his voice 
to excite a proper degree of wakefulness in 
his hearers, " contrive to appear heavy and 
constrained in the midst of all the latitude 
they have allowed themselves, like one of 
those young pagans that dance before the 
Princess, who has the ingenuity to move as if 
her limbs were fettered, in a pair of the light- 
est and loosest drawers of Masulipatam !" 

It was but little suitable, he continued, to 
the grave march of criticism to follow this 
fantastical Peri, of whom they had just 
heard, through all her flights and adventures 
between earth and heaven, but he could riot 
help adverting to the puerile conceitedness 
of the Three Gifts which she is supposed to 
carry to the skies, — a drop of blood, forsooth, 
a sigh, and a tear ! How the first of these 
articles was delivered into the Angel's " radi- 
ant hand" he professed himself at a loss to 

1 " It is said that the rivers or streams of Basra were reck- 
oned in the time of Belal Ben Abi Bordeh, and amounted to 
the number of one hundred and twenty thousand streams. 11 

1 "The name of the javelin with which the Easterns exer- 



discover; and as to the safe carriage of the 
sigh and tear, such Peris and such poets 
were beings by far too incomprehensible for 
him even to guess how they managed such 
matters. " But, in short," said he, " it is a 
waste of time and patience to dwell longer 
upon a thing so incurably frivolous, — puny 
even among its own puny race, and such as 
only the Banian Hospital 3 for Sick Insects 
should undertake." 

In vain did Lalla Rookh try to soften 
this inexorable critic ; in vain did she resort 
to her most eloquent commonplaces, — re- 
minding him that poets were a timid and 
sensitive race, whose sweetness was not to 
be drawn forth, 4 like that of the fragrant 
grass near the Ganges, by crushing and 
trampling upon them ; — that severity often 
destroyed every chance of the perfection 
which it demanded ; and that, after all, per- 
fection was like the Mountain of the Talis- 
man, — no one had ever yet reached its 
summit. 6 Neither these gentle axioms, nor 
the still gentler looks with which they were 
inculcated, could lower for one instant the 
elevation of Fadladeen's eyebrows, or charm 
him into anything like encouragement or even 
toleration of her poet. Toleration, indeed, 
was not among the weaknesses of Fadladeen ; 
— he carried the same spirit into matters of 
poetry and of religion, and, though little 
versed in the beauties or sublimities of either, 
was a perfect master of the art of persecution 
in both. His zeal, too, was the same in 
either pursuit ; whether the game before him 
was pagans or poetasters, — worshippers of 
cows, or writers of epics. 



' "This account excited a desire of visiting the Banian 
Hospital, as I had heard much of their benevolence to all kinds 
of animals that were either sick, lame, or infirm, through age 
or accident. On my arrival there were presented to my view 
many horses, cows, and oxen, in one apartment ; in another, 
dogs, sheep, goats, and monkeys, with clean straw for them to 
repose on. Above-stairs were depositories for seeds of many 
sorts, and flat, broad dishes for water, for the use of birds and 
insects. 11 — Parsons. 

It is said that all animals know the Banians, that the moat 
timid approach them, and that birds will fly nearer to them 
than to other people.— Tide Grandpre. 

4 " A very fragrant grass from the banks of the Ganges, near 
Heridwar, which in some places covers whole acres, and dif- 
fuses when crushed a strong odor. 11 — Sir W. Jones on the 
Spikenard of the Anciente. 

• "Near this is a curious hill, called Koh Talism, the ' Moun- 
tain of the Talisman," because, according to the traditions cf 
the country, no perBon ever succeeded in gaining its summit." 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



They had now arrived at the splendid city 
of Lahore, whose mausoleums and shrines, 
magnificent and numberless, where death 
seemed to share equal honors with Heaven, 
would have powerfully affected the heart and 
imagination of Lalla Rookh, if feelings more 
of this earth had not taken entire possession 
of her already. She was here met by mes- 
sengers, despatched from Cashmere, who in- 
formed her that the King had arrived in the 
valley, and was himself superintending the 
sumptuous preparations that were making in 
the saloons of the Shalimar for her reception. 
The chill she felt on receiving this intelli- 
gence, — which to a bride whose heart was 
free and light would have brought only 
images of affection and pk-asure, — convinced 
her that her peace was gone forever, and 
that she was in love — irretrievably in love — 
with young Feramorz. The veil, which this 
passion wears at first, had fallen off, and to 
know that she loved was now as painful as to 
love without knowing it had been delicious. 
Feramorz too — what misery would be his, if 
the sweet hours of intercourse so imprudently 
allowed them should have stolen into his 
heart the same fatal fascination as into hers ; 
if, notwithstanding her rank, and the modest 
homage he always paid to it, even he should 
have yielded to the krkence of those long 
and happy interviews, where music, poetry, 
the delightful scenes of nature — all tended 
to bring their hearts c!ose together, and to 
waken, by every mesns, that too ready pas- 
sion, which often, like the young of the 
desert-bird, is warmed into life by the eyes 
alone !' She saw but one way to preserve 
herself from being culpable as well as un- 
happy, and this, however painful, she was 
resolved to adopt. Feramorz must no more 
be admitted to her presence. To have 
strayed so far into the dangerous labyrinth 
was wrong, but to linger in it, while the clue 
was yet in her hand, would be criminal. 
Though the heart she had to offer to the 
King of Bucharia might be cold and broken, 
it should at least be pure ; and she must only 
try to forget the short vision of happiness she 
had enjoyed, — like that Arabian shepherd, 



who, in wandering into the wilderness, 
caught a glimpse of the Gardens of Irim 
and then lost them again forever !* 

The arrival of the young Bride at Lahore 
was celebrated in the most enthusiastic man- 
ner. The Rajas and Omras in her train, 
who had kept at a certain distance during 
the journey, had never encamped nearer to 
the Princess than was strictly necessary for 
her safeguard, here rode in splendid caval- 
cade through the city, and distributed the 
most costly presents to the crowd. Engines 
were erected in all the squares, which cast 
forth showers of confectionery among the 
people; while the artisans, in chariots 
adorned with tinsel and flying streamers, ex- 
hibited the badges of their respective trades 
through the streets. Such brilliant displays 
of life and pageantry among the palaces, and 
domes, and gilded minarets of Lahore, made 
the city altogether like a place of enchant- 
ment — particularly on the day when Lalla 
Rookh set out again upon her journey, when 
she was accompanied to the gate by all the 
fairest and richest of the nobility, and rode 
along between ranks of beautiful boys and 
girls, who waved plates of gold and silver 
flowers over their heads 3 as they went, and 
then threw them to be gathered by the 
populace. 

For many days after their departure frcm 
Lahore, a considerable degree of gloom hung 
over the whole party. Lalla Rookh, who 
had intended to make illness her excuse for 
not admitting the young minstrel, as usual, 
to the pavilion, soon found that to feign in- 
disposition was unnecessary. Fadladeen felt 
the loss of the good road they had hitherto 
travelled, and was very near cursing Jehan- 
Guire (of blessed memory !) for not having 
continued his delectable alley of trees/ at 









a Vide Sale's Koran, note, vol. ii., p. 484. 

3 Ferishta. 

" Or rather, 11 says Scott, upon the passage of Ferishta, 
frcm which this is taken, " small coin, stamped with the figure 
of a flower. They are still used in India to distribute in char, 
ity. and, on occasion, thrown by the pursebearers of the great 
among the populace." 

* The fine road made by the Emperor Jehan-Guire from 
Agra to Lahore, planted with trees on each side. 

Thi6 road is 250 leagues in length. It has " little pyramids 
or turrets, 11 says Beraier, "erected every half league, to mark 
the ways, and freqment wells to afford drink to passengers, and 
to water the younr trees " 






POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



least as far as the mountains of Cashmere ; — 
while the ladies, who had nothing now to do 
all day but to be fanned by peacocks' feath- 
ers and listen to Fadladeen, seemed heartily 
weary of tne life they led, and, in spite of all 
the Great Chamberlain's criticisms, were 
tasteless enough to wish for the poet again. 
One evening, as they were proceeding to 
their place of rest for the night, the Princess, 
who, for the freer enjoyment of the ainj had 
mounted her favorite Arabian palfrey, in 
passing by a small grove heard the notes of 
a lute from within its leaves, and a voice, 
which she but too well knew, singing the 
following words: — 

" Tell me not of joys above, 

If that world can give no bliss, 
Truer, happier than the love 
Which enslaves our souls in this I 

" Tell me not of Houris' eyes ; — 

Far from me their dangerous glow, 
If those looks that light the skies 
Wound like some that burn below I 

" Who that feels what love is here, 
All its falsehood — all its pain — • 
Would, for even Elysium's sphere, 
Risk the fatal dream again ? 

" Who that midst a desert's heat 
Sees the waters fade away, 
Would not rather die than meet 
Streams again as false as they ?" 

The tone of melancholy defiance in which 
these words were uttered, went to Lalla 
Rookh's heart ; — and, as she reluctantly rode 
on, she could not help feeling it as a sad but 
sweet certainty, that Feramorz was to the 
full as enamored and miserable as herself. 

The place where they encamped that even- 
ing was the first delightful spot they had 
come to since they left Lahore. On one side 
of them was a grove full of small Hindoo 
temples, and planted with the most graceful 
trees of the East ; where the tamarind, the 
cassia, and the silken plantains of Ceylon 
were mingled in rich contrast with the high 
fan-iike foliage of the Palmyra, — that favor- 
ite tree of the luxurious bird that lights up 
the chambers of its nest with fire-flies. 1 In 



1 The baya. or Indian groBB-beak.' 



the middle of the lawn where the pavilion 
stood, there was a tank surrounded by small 
mango-trees, on the clear cold waters of 
which floated multitudes of the beautiful red 
lotus ;' while at a distance stood the ruins 
of a strange and awful-looking tower, which 
seemed old enough to have been the temple 
of some religion no longer known, and which 
spoke the voice of desolation in the midst of 
ail that bloom and loveliness. This singular 
ruin excited the wonder and conjectures of 
all. Lalla Rookh guessed in vain, and the 
all-pretending Fadladeen, who had never till 
this journey been beyond the precincts of 
Delhi, was proceeding most learnedly to 
show that he knew nothing whatever about 
the matter, when one of the ladies suggested 
that perhaps Feramorz could satisfy their 
curiosity. They were now approaching his 
native mountains, and this tower might be a 
relic of some of those dark superstitions 
which had prevailed in that country before 
the light of Islam had dawned upon it. The 
Chamberlain, who usually preferred his own 
ignorance to the best knowledge that any 
one else could give him, was by no means 
pleased with this officious reference ; and the 
Princess, too, was about to interpose a faint 
word of objection, but, before either of them 
could speak, a slave was despatched for Fer- 
amorz, who, in a very few minutes, appeared 
before them, — looking so pale and unhappy 
in Lalla Rookh's eyes, that she already re- 
pented of her cruelty in having so long ex- 
cluded him. 

That venerable tower, he told them, was 
the remains of an ancient Fire-Temple, built 
by those Gheberb or Persians of the old re- 
ligion, who, many hundred years since, had 
fled hither from their Arab conquerors, 1 pre- 
ferring liberty and their altars in a foreign 
land to the alternative of apostasy or perse- 
cution in their own. It was impossible, he 
added, not to feel interested in the many 



* " Here Is a large pagoda by a tank, on the water of irtnch 
float mnltitndes of the beautiful red lotus ; the flower ie largei 
than that of the white water-lily, and is the most lovely of the 
nymphseas I have seen."— Mrs. Graham's Journal of a Resi- 
dence in India. 

' " On les voit, persecutes par les Khalifes, se retirer danr 
les montagnes du Kerman : plusieurs choisirent ponr retra.l* 
la Tartarie et la Chine ; d'autres s'arStdrent sur les horde da 
Gange, a Test de Delhi."— M. Anquetil, Memoires de V Acad- 
emic, torn, nxi., p. 346. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 






glorious hut unsuccessful struggles which 
had been bade by these original natives of 
Persia to cast off the yoke of their bigoted 
conquerors. Like their own fire in the Burn- 
ing Field at Bakou, when suppressed in one 
place, they had but broken out with fresh 
flame in another; and, as a native of Cash- 
mere, of that fair and holy valley, which had 
in the same manner become the prey of 
strangers,' and seen her ancient shrines and 
native princes swept away before the march 
of her intolerant invaders, he felt a sympathy, 
;ie owned, with the sufferings of the perse- 
cuted Ghebers, which every monument like 
this before them but tended more powerfully 
to awaken. 

It was the first time that Feramorz had 
ever ventured upon so much prose before 
Fadladeen, and it may easily be conceived 
what effect such prose as this must have 
produced upon that most orthodox and most 
pagan-hating personage. He sat for some 
minutes aghast, ejaculating only at intervals, 
" Bigoted conquerors ! — sympathy with Fire- 
Worshippers !" B — while Feramorz, happy to 
take advantage of this almost speechless hor- 
ror of the chamberlain, proceeded to say that 
he knew a melancholy story, connected with 
the events of one of those brave struggles of 
the Fire- Worshippers of Persia against their 
Arab masters, which, if the evening was not 
too far • advanced, he should have much 
pleasure in being allowed to relate to the 
Princess. It was impossible for Lalla Rookh 
to refuse ; — he had never before looked half 
so animated, and when he spoke of the Holy 
Valley his eyes had sparkled, she thought, 
like the talismanic characters on the scimitar 
of Solomon. Her consent was therefore 
most readily granted, and while Fadladeen 
sat in unspeakable dismay, expecting treason 
and abomination in every line, the poet thus 
began his story of the Fire- Worshippers : — 



1 "Cashmere," says Hb historians, "had its own princes 
4000 years before its conquest by Akbar in 15S5. Akbar would 
have found some difficulty to reduce this paradise of the In- 
dies, situated as it is within such a fortress of mountains, hut 
its monarch, Yusef Khai., was basely betrayed by his Omrahs." 
— Pennant. 

' Voltaire tells as that in his tragedy Les Guebrts, he was 
generally supposed to have alluded to the Jansenists I and I I 
should not be surprised if this story of the Fire-Worshippeia I 
were found capable of a similar doubleness of application. ' 



THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS. 

'Tis moonlight over Oman's sea ;' 

Her banks of pearl and palmy isles 
Bask in the night-beam beauteously, 

And her blue waters sleep in smiles. 
'Tis moonlight in Harmozia's* walls, 
And through her Emir's porphyry halls, 
Where, some hours since, was heard thi 

swell 
Of trumpet and the clash of zel,' 
Bidding the bright-eyed sun farewell ; — 
The peaceful sun, whom better suits 

The music of the bulbul's nest, 
Or the light touch of lovers' lutes, 

To sing him to his golden rest ! 
All hush'd — there's not a breeze in motion ; 
The shore is silent as the ocean. 
If zephyrs come, so light they come, 

Nor leaf is stirr'd nor wave is driven; — 
The wind-tower on the Emir's dome* 

Can hardly win a breath from heaven. 

Even he, that tyrant Arab, sleeps 
Calm, while a nation round him weeps; 
While curses load the air he breathes, 
And falchions from unnumber'd sheaths 
Are starting to avenge the shame 
His race hath brought on Iran's' name. 
Hard, heartless Chief, unmoved alike 
'Mid eyesthat weep and swords that strike ;— 
One of that saintly, murderous brood, 

To carnage and the Koran given, 
Who think through unbelievers' blood 

Lies their directest path to heaven. 
One who will pause and kneel unshod 

In the warm blood his hand hath pour'd, 
To mutter o'er some text of God 

Engraven on his reeking sword ;" — 
Nay, who can coolly point, the line, 
The letter of those words divine, 
To which his blade, with searching art, 
Had sunk into its victim's heart ! 



• The Persian Gulf. 

' Gombaroon, a town on the Persian side of the Golf. 

• A Moorish instrument of music. 

• "At Gombaroon, and other places in Persia, they b»v« 
towers for the purpose of catching the wind, and cooling the 
jouses." 

' "Iran-is the true general name lor ihe empire of Persa.' 

• "On the blades of 'heir scimitare some verse from th« 
Koran iB usually inscribed." 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Just Alia ! what must be Thy look, 

When such a wretch before Thee stands 
Unblushing, with Thy sacred book, — 

Turning the leaves with blood-stain'd 
hands, 
And wresting from its page sublime 
His creed of lust and hate and crime ? 
Even as those bees of Trebizond, 

Which from the sunniest flowers that 
glad 
With their pure smile the gardens round, 

Draw venom forth that drives men mad !' 

Never did fierce Arabia send 

A satrap forth more direly great ; 
Never was Iran doom'd to bend 

Beneath a yoke of deadlier weight. 
Tier throne had fallen— her pride was crush'd— 
Her sons were willing slaves, nor blush'd 
In their own land, — no more their own, — 
To crouch beneath a stranger's throne. 
Her towers, where Mithra once had burn'd, 
To Moslem shrines — oh shame ! — were turn'd, 
Where slaves, converted by the sword, 
Their mean, apostate worship pour'd, 
And cursed the faith their sires adored. 
Yet has she hearts, 'mid all this ill, 
O'er all this wreck, high, buoyant still 
With hope and vengeance ; — hearts that yet, 

Like gems, in darkness issuing rays 
They've treasured from the sun that's set, 

Beam all the light of long-lost days ! 
And swords she hath, nor weak nor slow 

To second all such hearts can dare; 
As he shall know, well, dearly know, 

Who sleeps in moonlight luxury there, 
Tranquil as if his spirit lay 
Becalm'd in heaven's approving ray .! 
Sleep on — for purer eyes than thine 
Those waves are hush'd, those planets shine. 
Sleep on, and be thy rest unmoved 

By the white moonlight's dazzling power : 
None but the loving and the loved 

Should be awake at this sweet hour. 

And see — where, high above those rocks 
That o'er the deep their shadows fling, 
Yon turret stands ; — where ebon locks, 

1 "There is a kind of Rhododendron about Trebizond, 
w nose flowers the bee feeds upon, and the honey thence drives 



As glossy as a heron's wing 

Upon the turban of a king, 3 
Hang from the lattice long and wild, — 
'Tis she, that Emir's blooming child. 
All truth and tenderness and grace, 
Though born of such ungentle race;-- 
An image of youth's fairy fountain 
Springing in a desolate mountain !' 

Oh. what a pure and sacred thing 

Is Beauty, curtain'd from the sight 
Of the gross world, illumining 

One only mansion with her light ! 
Unseen by man's disturbing eye, — 

The flower that blooms beneath the sea 
Too deep for sunbeams doth not lie 

Hid in more chaste obscurity ! 
So, Hinda, have thy face and mind, 
Like holy mysteries, lain enshrined. 
And oh, what transport for a lover 

To lift the veil that shades them o'er ! — 
Like those who all at once discover 

In the lone deep some fairy shore, 

Where mortal never trod before, 
And sleep and wake in scented airs 
No lip had ever breathed but theirs ! 

Beautiful are the maids that glide 

On summer-eves through Yemen's* dales. 
And bright the glancing looks they hide 

Behind their litters' roseate veils ; — 
And brides, as delicate and fair 
As the white jasmine flowers they wear, 
Hath Yemen in her blissful clime, 

Who, lull'd in cool kiosk or bower,' 
Before their mirrors count the time,' 

And grow still lovelier every hour. 



3 "Their kings wear plumes of black herons' feathers upon 
the right side, as a badge of sovereignity." 

3 " The Fountain of Youth, by a Mohammedan tradition, ix 
sitnated in some dark region of the East." 

* Arabia Felix. 

6 " In the midst of the garden is the chioss, that is, a larg« 
room, commonly beautified with a fine fountain in the midst 
of it. It is raised nine or ten steps, and enclosed with gilded 
lattices, round which vines, jessamines, and honeysuckle* 
make a sort of green wall ; large treeB are planted round this 
place, which is' the scene of their greatest pleasures."— Lady 
M. W. Montagu. 

« The women of the East are never without their looking- 
glasses. " In Barbary." says Shaw, " they are so fond of theii 
looking-glasses, which they hang upon their breasts, that they 
wiH not lay them aside, even when, after the drudgery of the 
day, they are obliged to go two or three miles with a pitcher 
or a goat's skin to fetch water."— Travels. 

In other parts of Asia they wear little looking glasses ia 



120 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



But never yet hath bride or maid 
In Araby's gay Harams smiled, 

vVhose boasted brightness would Dot fade 
Before Al Hassan's blooming child. 

Light as the angel shapes that bless 
An infant's dream, yet not the less 
Rich in all woman's loveliness ; — 
With eyes so pure, that from their ray 
Dark Vice would turn abash'd away, 
Blinded like serpents, when they gaze 
Upon the emerald's virgin blaze! 1 
Yet, fill'd with all youth's sweet desires, 
Mingling the meek and vestal fires 
Of other worlds with all the bliss, 
The fond, weak tenderness of this! 
The soul, too, more than half divine, 

Where, through some shades of earthly 
feeling, 
Religion's soften'd glories shine, 

Like light through summer foliage stealing, 
Shedding a glow of such mild hue, 
So warm, and yet so shadowy too, 
As makes the very darkness there 
More beautiful than light elsewhere ! 

Snch is the maid who, at this hour, ' 

Hath risen from her restless sleep, 
And sits alone in that high bower, 

Watching the still and moonlight deep. 
Ah ! 'twas not thus, — with tearful eyes 

And beating heart, — she used to gaze 
On the magnificent earth and skies, 

In her own land, in happier days. 
Why looks she now so anxious down 
Among those rocks, whose rugged frown 

Blackens the mirror of the deep ? 
Whom waits she all this lonely night ? 

Too rough the rocks, too bold the steep 
For man to scale that turret's height ! 

So deem'd at least her thoughtful sire, 
When high, to catch the cool night-air 



their thumbs. " Hence ;and from the lotus being considered 
the emblem of beauty) is the meaning of the following mate 
i of two lovers before their parents :— 
"He, with salute of deference due, 
A lotus to his forehead prest ; 
She raised her mirror to his view, 
Then turned it inward to her breast." 

Asiatic Miscellany, vol. ii. 



After the day -beam's withering fire,' 

He built her bower of freshness there, 
And had it deck'd with costliest skill, 

And fondly thought it safe as fair. 
Think, reverend dreamer ! think so still, 

Nor wake to learn what love can dare- 
Love, all-defying Love, who sees 
No charm in trophies won with ease; — 
Whose rarest, dearest fruits of bliss 
Are pluck'd on danger's precipice ! 
Bolder than they who dare not dive 

For pearls but when the sea's at rest, 
Love, in the tempest most alive, 

Hath ever held that pearl the best 
He finds beneath the stormiest water ! — 
Yes, Araby's unrivall'd daughter, 
Though high that tower, that rock-way rude, 

There's one who, but to kiss thy cheek, 
Would climb the untrodden solitude 

Of Ararat's tremendous peak, 
And think its steeps, though dark and dread, 
Heaven's pathways, if to thee they led ! 
Even now thou seest the flashing spray, 
That lights his oar's impatient way; — 
Even now thou hearst the sudden shock 
Of his swift bark against the rock, 
And stretchest down thy arms of snow, 
As if to lift him from below ! 
Like her to whom, at dead of night, 
The bridegroom, with his locks of light, 
Came, in the flush of love and pride, 
And scaled the terrace of his bride; — 
When as she saw him rashly spring, 
And mid-way up in danger cling, 
She flung him down her long black hair, 
Exclaiming, breathless, " There, love, there !' 
And scarce did manlier nerve uphold 

The hero Zal in that fond hour, 
Than wings the youth who fleet and bold 

Now climbs the rocks to Hinda's bower. 
See — light as up their granite steeps 

The rock-goats of Arabia clamber,' 
Fearless from crag to crag he leaps, 

And now is at the maiden's chamber. 

She loves — but knows not whom she love8, 
Nor what his race, nor whence he came; — 

' " At Gombaroon and the Isle of Ormus, it is sometimes M 
hot that the people are obliged to lie all day iu the water."— 
Marco Polo. 

> "On the lofty hills of Arabia Petrasa are rock-goata."-- 
NUbuhr. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



121 



Like one who meets, in Indian groves, 

Some beauteous bird without a name, 
Brought by the last ambrosial breeze, 
From isles in the undiscover'd seas, 
To show his plumage for a day 
To wondering eyes, and wing away ! 
Will he thus fly — her nameless lover? 

Alia forbid ! 'twas by a moon 
As fair as this, while singing over 

Some ditty to her soft kanoon,' 
Alone, at this same witching hour 

She first beheld his radiant eyes 
Gleam through the lattice of the bower, 

Where nightly now they mix their sighs ; 
And thought some spirit of the air 
(For what could waft a mortal there ?) 
Was pausing on his moonlight way 
To listen to her lonely lay ! 
This fancy ne'er hath left her mind; 

And though, when terror's swoon had 
pass'd, 
She saw a youth of mortal kind 

Before her in obeisance cast, — 
Yet often since, when he has spoken 

Strange, awful words, and gleams have 
broken 
From his dark eyes, too bright to bear, 

Oh ! she hath fear'd her soul was given 
To some unhallow'd child of air, 

Some erring spirit, cast from heaven, 
Like those angelic youths of old, 
Who burn'd for maids of mortal mould, 
Bewilder'd left the glorious skies, 
And lost their heaven for woman's eyes ! 
Fond girl ! nor fiend nor angel he, 
Who woos thy young simplicity ; 
But one of earth's impassion'd sons, 

As warm in love, as fierce in ire 
As the best heart whose current runs 

Full of the Day-God's living fire ! 

But quench'd to-night that ardor seems, 
And pale his cheek, and sunk his brow ; — 

Never before, but in her dreams, 
Had she beheld him pale as now : 

And those were dreams of troubled sleep, 

Prom which 'twas joy to wake and weep ; 

Visions that will not be forgot, 



1 "Can an, espScc de psalterion, avec des cordes de boyaux, 
8 dames en touchent dans le sarail, avec des deoailles armeee 
: pointes de coco."— Toderini, translated by De Cournaud. 



But sadden every waking scene, 
Like warning ghosts that leave the spot 
All wither'd where they once have been I 

" How sweetly," said the trembling maid, 
Of her own gentle voice afraid, 
So long had they in silence stood, 
Looking upon that moonlight flood — 
" How sweetly does the moonbeam smile 
To-night upon yon leafy isle ! 
Oft, in my fancy's wanderings, 
I've wish'd that little isle had wings, 
And we, within its fairy bowers, 

Were wafted off to seas unknown, 
Where not a pulse should beat but ours, 

And we might live, love, die alone, 
Far from the cruel and the cold, — 

Where the bright eyes of angels only 
Should come around us, to behold 

A Paradise so pure and lonely ! 
Would this be world enough for thee ?" — 
Playful she turn'd, that he might see 

The passing smile her cheek put on ; 
But when she mark'd how mournfully 

His eyes met hers, that smile was gone ; 
And, bursting into heartfelt tears, 
"Yes, yes," she cried, " my hourly fears, 
My dreams have boded all too right — 
We part — forever part — to-night ! 
I knew, I knew it could not last — 
'Twas bright, 'twas heavenly, but 'tis past ! 
Oh, ever thus, from childhood's hour, 

I've seen my fondest hopes decay; 
I never loved a tree or flower, 

But 'twas the first to fade away. 
I never nursed a dear gazelle, 

To glad me with its soft black eye, 
But when it came to know me well, 

And love me, it was sure to die ! 
Now too — the joy most like divine 

Of all I ever dreamt or knew, 
To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine — 

O misery ! must I lose that too ? 
Yet go — on peril's brink we meet ; — 

Those frightful rocks — that treacherouf 
sea — 
No, never come again — though sweet, 

Though heaven, it may be death to thee. 
Farewell — and blessings on thy way, 

Where'er thou go'st, beloved stranger 1 
Better to sit and watch that ray, 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



And think thee safe, though far away, 
Than have thee near me, and in danger I" 

' Danger !— oh, tempt me not to boast," 
The youth exclaim'd — "thou little knowst 
What he can brave, who, born and nurst 
In danger's paths, has dared her worst! 
Upon whose ear the signal- word 

Of strife and death is hourly breaking; 
Who sleeps with head upon the sword 

His fever'd hand must grasp in waking ! 



" Say on — thou fearst not, then, 
And we may meet — oft meet again ?" 

"Oh! look not so, — beneath the skies 

I now fear nothing but those eyes. 

If aught on earth could charm or force 

My spirit from its destined course, — 

If aught could make this soul forget 

The bond to which its seal is set, 

'Twould be those eyes ; — they, only they, 

Could melt that sacred seal away! 

Bub no — 'tis fix'd — my awful doom 

Is fix'd — on this side of the tomb 

We meet no more — why, why did Heaven 

Mingle two souls that earth has riven, 

Has rent asunder wide as ours? 

Oh, Arab maid ! as soon the powers 

Of light and darkness may combine, 

As I be link'd with thee or thine ! 

Thy father " 

" Holy Alia save 

His gray head from that lightning glance ! 
Thou knowst him not — he loves the brave : 

Nor lives there under heaven's expanse 
One who would prize, would worship thee, 
And thy bold spirit, more than he. 
Oft when, in childhood, I have play'd 

With the bright falchion by his side, 
I've heard him swear his lisping maid 

In time should be a warrior's bride. 
And still, whene'er, at Haram hours, 
I take him cool sherbets and flowers, 
He tells me, when in playful mood, 

A hero shall my bridegroom be, 
Since maids are best in battle woo'd, 

And won with shouts of victory ! 
Nay, turn not from me — thou alone 
Art i'orm'd to make both hearts thy own. 



Go — join his sacred ranks — thou knowst 

The unholy strife these Persians wage : — 
Good Heaven, that frown ! — even now thou 
glowst 

With more than mortal warrior's rage. 
Haste to the camp by morning's light, 
And, when that sword is raised in fight, 
Oh^ still remember love and I 
Beneath its shadow trembling lie ! 
One victory o'er those Slaves of Fire, 
Those impious Ghebers, whom my sire 

Abhors " 

" Hold, hold — thy words are death ! w 

The stranger cried, as wild he flung 
His mantle back, and show'd beneath 

The Gheber belt that round him clung.' — 
" Here, maiden, look — weep — blush to see 
All that thy sire abhors in me ! 
Yes — Jain of that impious race, 

Those Slaves of Fire who, morn and even, 
Hail their Creator's dwelling-place 

Among the living lights of heaven I* 

Yes — I am of that outcast few 
To Iran and to vengeance true, 
Who curse the hour your Arabs came 
To desolate our shrines of flame, 
And swear, before God's burning eye, 
To break our country's chains, or die ! 
Thy bigot sire — nay, tremble not — 

He who gave birth to those dear eyes 
With* me is sacred as the spot 

From which our fires of worship rise ! 
But know — 'twas he I sought that night. 



1 "They (the Ghebers) lay so much stress on their cushee 
or girdle, as not to dare to be an instant without it." 

"Pour se distinguer des idolatres de rinde, les Guebres se 
ceignent tons d'nu cordon de laine, ou de puil de chameuu " 
— Encyclnptdie Franqoise. 

D'Herbelot says this belt was generally of leather. 

a " They suppose the throne of the Almighty is seated in 
the sun, and hence their worship of that luminary." 

" As to fire, the Ghebers place the spring-head of it in that 
globe of fire, the sun, by them called Mythras, or Mihir, to 
which they pay the highest reverence, in gratitude for Uw 
manifold benefits flowiug from its ministerial omu (Science. 
But they are so far from confounding the subordination of tho 
servant with the majesty of its Creator, that they not only 
attribute no sort of sense or reasoning to the sun or fire ft 
any of its operations, but consider it as a purely passive blind 
instrument, directed and governed by the immediate impres- 
sion on it of the will of God ; but they do not even give that 
luminary, all-glorious as it is, more than the second rank 
amongst his works, reserving the first for that stupendous 
production of divine power, the mind of man." — Grose. The 
false charges brought against the religion of these people by 
their Mussulman tyrants is but one proof among many of the 
truth of this writer's remark, " that calumny is often added to 
oppression, if but for the sake of justifying it " 






POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



123 



"When, from my watch-boat on the sea, 
I caught this turret's glimmering light, 

And up the rude rocks desperately 
Rush'd to my prey — thou knowst the rest — 
I climb'd the gory vulture's nest, 
And found a trembling dove within ; — 
Thins, thine the victory — thine the sin — 
If Love has made one thought his own, 
That Vengeance claims first — last — alone ! 
Oh ! had we never, never met, 
Or could this heart even now forget 
How link'd, how bless'd we might have been, 
Had fate not frown'd so dark between ! 
Hadst thou been born a Persian maid, 

In neighboring valleys had we dwelt, 
Through the same fields in childhood play'd, 

At the same kindling altar knelt, — 
rhen, then, while all those nameless ties, 
In which the charm of country lies, 
Had round our hearts been hourly spun, 
Till Iran's cause and thine were one ; — 
While in thy lute's awakening sigh 
I heard the voice of days gone by, 
And saw in every smile of thine 
Returning hours of glory shine ! — 
While the wrong' d spirit of our land 

Lived, .ook'd, and spoke her wrongs 
througr thee — 
God ! who could then this sword withstand ? 

Its very flash were victory ! 
But now, estranged, divorced forever, 
Far as the grasp of Fate can sever — 
Our only ties what love has wove — 

Faith, friends, and country, sunder'd wide ; 
And then, then only true to love, 

When false to all that's dear beside ! 
Thy father Iran's deadliest foe — 
Thyself, perhaps, even now — but no — 
Hate never look'd so lovely yet ! 

No — sacred to thy soul will be 
The land of him who could forget 

All but that bleeding land for thee ! 
When other eyes shall see, unmoved, 

Her widows mourn, her warriors fall, 
Thou'lt think how well one Gheber loved, 

And for his sake thou'lt weep for all ! 

But look " 

With sudden start he turn'd 
And pointed to the distant wave, 
Where .lights, like charnel meteors, burn'd 

Bluely, as o'er some seaman's grave ; 



And fiery darts, at intervals, 1 

Flew up all sparkling from the main. 

As if each star that nightly falls, 

Were shooting back to heaven again. 

" My signal lights ! — I must away — 

Both, both are ruin'd, if I stay. 

Farewell, sweet life ! thou clingst in vain — 

Now, vengeance, I am thine again !" 

Fiercely he broke away, nor stopp'd, 

Nor look'd — but from the lattice dropp'd 

Down mid the pointed crags beneath, 

As if he fled from love to death. 

While pale and mute young Hinda stood,. 

Nor moved, till in the silent flood 

A momentary plunge below 

Startled her from her trance of woe ; — 

Shrieking she to the lattice flew, 

" I come — I come — if in that tide 
Thou sleepst to-night — I'll sleep there too,. 

In death's cold wedlock by thy side. 
Oh, I would ask no happier bed 

Than the chill wave my love lies under ;— 
Sweeter to rest together dead, 

Far sweeter, than to live asunder !" 
But no — their hour is not yet come — 

Again she sees his pinnace fly, - 
Wafting him fleetly to his home, 

Where'er that ill-starr'd home may lie; 
And calm and smooth it seem'd to win 

Its moonlight way before the wind, 
As if it bore all peace within, 

Nor left one breaking heart behind ! 

The Princess, whose heart was sad enough 
already, could have wished that Feramorz 
had chosen a less melancholy story ; as it is 
only to the happy that tears are a luxury 
Her ladies, however, were by no means sorry 
that love was once more the poet's theme ; 
for when he spoke of love, they said, his 
voice was as sweet as if he had chewed the 
leaves of that enchanted tree which grows 
over the tomb of the musician, Tan-Sein. 2 



1 " The Mamelukes that were in the other boat, when it war 
dark, used to shoot up a sort of fiery arrows into the air, which, 
in some measure, resembled lightning or falling stare." 

* " At Gualior is a small tomb to the memory of Tan-Sein, 
a musician of incomparable skill, who flourished at the court 
of Akbar. The tomb is overshadowed by a tree, concerning 
which a superstitious notion prevails, that the chewing of IU 
leaves will give an extraordinary melody to the vj«."~ 
Journey from Agra to Oiizein, by W. Hunter, Esq 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Their road all the morning had lain through 
a very dreary country — through valleys, cov- 
ered with a low bushy jungle, where, in more 
than one place, the awful signal of the bam- 
boo staff, 1 with the white flag at its top, 
reminded the traveller that in that very spot 
the tiger had made some human creature his 
victim. It was therefore with much pleasure 
that they arrived at sunset in a safe and 
lovely glen, and encamped under one of those 
holy trees, whose smooth columns and 
spreading roofs seem to destine them for 
natural temples of religion. Beneath the 
shade, some pious hands had erected pillars, 2 
ornamented with the most beautiful porce- 
lain, which now supplied the use of mirrors 
to the young maidens, as they adjusted their 
hair in descending from the palankeens. 
Here while, as usual, the Princess sat listen- 
ing anxiously, with Fadladeen in one of his 
loftiest moods of criticism by her side, the 
young poet, leaning against a branch of the 
tree, thus continued his story : — 

The morn has risen clear and calm, 

And o'er the Green Sea 3 palely shines, 
Revealing Bahrein's groves of palm, 

And lighting KishmaV amber vines. 
Fresh smell the shores of Araby, 
While breezes from the Indian Sea 
Blow round Selania's' sainted cape, 

And curl the shining flood beneath, — 
Whose waves are rich with many a grape, 

And cocoanut and flowery wreath, 
Which pious seamen, as they pass'd, 
Have toward that holy headland cast — 
Oblations to the genii there 
For gentle skies and breezes fair ! 



1 " It is usual to place a small white triangular flag, fixed to 
a bamboo stan' of ten or twelve feet long, at the piece where a 
tiger haB destroyed a man. The sight of these flags imparts 
a certain melancholy, not perhaps altogether void of appre- 
hension."— Oriental Field Sports, vo;. ii. 

J " The Fieus indica is called the Pagod Tree and Tree of 
Council ; the first from the idols placed under its shade ; the 
second, because meetings were held under its cool branches. 
In some places it is he.icved to be the haunt of spectres, as 
the ancient spreading oaks of Wales have been of fairies ; in 
others are erected beneath the shade pillars of stone, or posts, 
elegantly carved and ornamented with the most beautiful por- 
celain to supply the use of mirrors."— Pennant. 

' The Persian Gulf. 

« Islands in the Gulf. 

• Or Selemeh, the genuine name of the headland at the en- 
trance of the Gulf, commonly called Cape Musseldom. 



The nightingale now bends ber flight* 
From the high trees, where all the night 

She sung so sweet, with none to listen; 
And hides her from the morning star 

Where thickets of-pornegranate glisten 
In the clear dawn, — bespangled o'er 

With dew, whose ntght-drops would not 
stain 
The best and brightest scimitar' 
That ever youthful sultan wore 

On the first morning of his reign ! 

And see — the sun himself ! — on wings 
Of glory up the east he springs. 
Angel of light ! who from the time 
Those heavens began their march sublime, 
Has first of all the starry chair 
Trod in his Maker's steps of fire ! 

Where are the days, thou wondrous sphere. 
When Iran, like a sun-flower, turn'd 
To meet that eye where'er it burn'd ? — 

When, from the banks of Bendemeer 
To the nut-groves of Samarcand 
Thy temples flamed o'er all the land ? 
Where are they ? ask the shades of them 

Who, on Cadessia's' bloody plains, 
Saw fierce invaders pluck the gem 
From Iran's broken diadem, 

And bind her ancient faith in chains : — 
Ask the poor exile, cast alone 
On foreign shores, unloved, unknown, 
Beyond the Caspian's Iron Gates," 

Or on the snowy Mossian Mountains, 
Far from his beauteous land of dates, 

Her jasmine bowers and sunny fountains t 
Yet happier so than if he trod 
His own beloved but blighted sod, 
Beneath a despot stranger's nod ! — 
Oh ! he would rather houseless roam 

Where Freedom and his God may lead, 
Than be the sleekest slave at home 

That crouches to the conqueror's creed ! 



7 In speaking of the climate of Shiraz, Francklin says, 
" The dew is of such a pure nature that, if the brightest sciml 
tar should be exposed to it all night, it would not receive the 
least rust." 

» The place where the Persians were finally defeated by the 
Arabs, and their ancient monarchy destroyed. 

> Derbeud.— " Les Turcs appollent cette ville Demir Capi, 
Porte de For; ce sont les Caspiae Port"! dcs anciens." 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



125 



Is Iran's pride then gone forever, 
Quench'd with the flame in Mithra's 
caves ? — 
No — she has sons that never — never — 
Will stoop to be the Moslem's slaves, 
While heaven has light or earth has graves. 
Spirits of fire, that brood not long, 
But flash resentment back for wrong ; 
And hearts where, slow but deep, the seeds 
Of vengeance ripen into deeds, 
Till, in some treacherous hour of calm, 
They burst, like Zeilan's giant palm, 1 
Whose buds fly open with a sound 
That shakes the pigmy forests round ! 

Fes, Emir ! he who scaled that tower, 

And, could he reach thy slumbering 
breast, 
Would teach thee, in a Gheber's power 

How safe even tyrant heads may rest — 
Is one of many, brave as he, 
Who loathe thy haughty race and thee ; 
Who, though they know the strife is vain, 
Who, though they know the riven chain 
Snaps but to enter in the heart 
Of him who rends its links apart, 
Yet dare the issue, — blest to be 
Even for one bleeding moment free, 
And die in pangs of liberty ! 
Thou knowst them well — 'tis some moons 
since 

Thy turban'd troops and blood-red flags, 
Thou satrap of a bigot prince ! 

Have swarm'd among these Green Sea 
crags ; 
Fet here, even here ; a sacred band, 
Ay, in the portal of that land 
Thou, Arab, darest to call thy own, 
Their spears across thy path have thrown ; 
Here— ere the winds half-wing'd thee o'er — 
Rebellion braved thee from the shore. 

Rebellion ! foul, dishonoring word, 
Whose wrongful blight so oft has stain'd 

The holiest cause that tongue or sword 
Of mortal ever lost or gain'd. 

How many a spirit, born to bless, 

Has sunk beneath that withering name, 



1 " The Talpot or Talipot Palm Tree. The sheath which 
envelops the flower is very large, and, when it hursts, makes 
an explosion like the report of a cannon." — Thutiberg. 



Whom but a day's, an hour's success, 

Had wafted to eternal fame ! 
As exhalations, when they burst 
From the warm earth, if chill'd at first, 
If check'd in soaring from the plain, 
Darken to fogs, and sink again ; — 
But if they once triumphant spread 
Their wings above the mountain-head, 
Become enthroned in upper air, 
And turn to sun-bright glories there \ 

And who is he that wields the might 

Of freedom on the Green Sea brink, 
Before whose sabre's dazzling light* 

The eyes of Yeman's warriors wink ? 
Who comes embower'd in the spears 
Of Kerman's hardy mountaineers? — 
Those mountaineers that truest, last, 

Cling to their country's ancient rites, 
As if that God, whose eyelids cast 

Their closing gleam on Iran's heights, 
Among her snowy mountains threw 
The last light of His worship too ! 

'Tis Hafed — name of fear, whose sound 

Chills like the muttering of a charm : — 
Shout but that awful name around-, 

And palsy shakes the manliest arm. 
'Tis Hafed, most accurst and dire 
(So rank'd by Moslem hate and ire) 
Of all the rebel Sons of Fire ! 
Of whose malign, tremendous power 
The Arabs, at their mid-watch hour, 
Such tales of fearful wonder tell, 
That each affrighted sentinel 
Pulls down his cowl upon his eyes, 
Lest Hafed in the midst should rise ! 
A man, they say, of monstrous birth, 
A mingled race of flame and earth, 
Sprung from those old, enchanted kings 

Who in their fairy helms, of yore, 
A feather from the mystic wings 

Of the Simoorgh resistless wore ; 
And gifted, by the fiends of fire, 
Who groan'd to see their shrines expire, 



2 " When the bright cimiters make the eyes c ". ur heroet 
wink."— The Mollakat, Poems of Amru. 

> Tahmuras, and other ancient kings of Persia: v> hose ad- 
ventures in Fairy Land, among the Peris and Dives, may be 
fonnd in Richardson's Dissertation. The griffin Simoorgh, 
they say, took some feathers from her breast for Tahmurae, 
with which he adorned his helmet, and transmitted them 
afterward to hie descendants. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 






With charms that, all in vain withstood, 
Would drown the Koran's light in blood ! 

Such were the tales that won belief, 

And such the coloring fancy gave 
To a young, warm, and dauntless Chief, — 

One who, no more than mortal brave, 
Fought for the land his soul adored, 

For happy homes and altars free, — 
His only talisman the sword, 

His only spell-word, Liberty ! 
One of that ancient hero line, 
Along whose glorious current shine 
Names that have sanctified their blood ; 
As Lebanon's small mountain-flood 
Is render'd holy by the ranks' 
Of sainted cedars on its banks !' 
''Twas not for him to crouch the knee 
Tamely to Moslem tyranny : — 
: 'Twas not for him, whose soul was cast 
In the bright mould of ages past, 
Whose melancholy spirit, fed 
With all the glories of the dead, 
Though framed for Iran's happiest years, 
Was born among her chains and tears ! — 
'Twas not for him to swell the crowd 
Of slavish heads, that shrinking bow'd 
Before the Moslem as he pass'd, 
Like shrubs beneath the poison-blast ; 
No — far he fled — indignant fled 

The pageant of his country's shame ; 
While every tear her children shed 

Fell on his soul like drops of flame ; 
And as a lover hails the dawn 

Of a first smile, so welcomed he 
The sparkle of the first sword drawn 

For vengeance and for liberty ! 

But vain was valor— vain the flower 
"Of Kerman, in that deathful hour, 
Against Al Hassan's whelming power. 
In vain they met him, helm to helm, 
Upon the threshold of that realm 
He came in bigot pomp to sway, 



■ In the Lettrea Ed\flantts, there is a different cause as- 
•igned for its name of holy. "In these are deep caverns, 
which formerly served as so many cells for a great number of 
recluses, who had chosen these retreats as the only witnesses 
upon the earth of the severity of their penance. The tears of 
these pious penitents gave the river of which we have just 
treated the name of the Holy River." Vide Chateaubriand's 
••Beauties of Christianity." 

- TMs molet," says Dandini, "is called the Holy River, 
a' anong which It rises.' 



And with their corpses block'd his way ; 
In vain — for every lance they raised 
Thousands around the conqueror blazed ; 
For every arm that lined their shore, 
Myriads of slaves were wafted o'er, — 
A bloody, bold, and countless crowd, 
Before whose swarm as fast they bow'd 
As dates beneath the locust-cloud ! 

There stood — but one short league away 
From old Harmozia's sultry bay — 
A rocky mountain o'er the Sea s 
Of Oman beetling awfully, 
A last and solitary link 

Of those stupendous chains that reach 
From the broad Caspian's reedy brink 

Down winding to the Green Sea beach. 
Around its base the bare rocks stood, 
Like naked giants in the flood, 

As if to guard the gulf across ; 
While on its peak, that braved the sky, 
A ruin'd temple tower'd so high 

That oft the sleeping albatross' 
Struck the wild ruins with her winsr, 
And from her cloud-rock'd slumbering 
Started — to find man's dwelling there 
In her own silent fields of air ! 
Beneath, terrific caverns gave 
Dark welcome to each stormy wave 
That dash'd, like midnight revellers, in ; — 
And such the strange, mysterious din 
At times throughout those caverns roll'd,— 
And such the fearful wonders told 
Of restless sprites imprison'd there, 
That bold were Moslem who would dare, 
At twilight hour, to steer his skiff 
Beneath the Gheber's lonely cliff.' 

On the land side, those towers sublime, 
That seem'd above the grasp of Time, 
Were sever'd from the haunts of men 
By a wide, deep, and wizard glen, 



• This mountain is my own creation, as the " stupeet »«■ 
chain" of which I suppose it a link does not extend qcil* M 
far aB the shore of the Persian Gulf. 

• These birds sleep in the air. They are most cornmoa 
about the Cape of Good Hope. 

• "There is an extraordinary hill in the neighborhood, 
called Kohe Gubr, or the Guebre's mountain. It rises in the 
form of a lofty cupola, and on the summit of it, they eay, are 
the remains of Atush Kudu or Fire Temple. It is supersti- 
tiously held to be the residence of Deeves or Sprites, and 
many marvellous stories are recounted of the injury and witch- 
craft suffered by those who essayed in former days to ascend 
ot explore it."— Pottinger'a Beloochlstan. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



So faikomless, so full of gloom, 

No eye could pierce the void between; 
It seam'd a place where ghouls might come 
With their foul banquets from the tomb, 

And # in its caverns feed unseen. 
Like distant thunder, from below 

The sound of many torrents came ; 
loo deep for eye or ear to know 
If 'twere the sea's imprison'd flow, 

Or floods of ever-restless flame. 
Eor each ravine, each rocky spire 
Of that vast mountain stood on fire ;' 
And though forever past the days 
When God was wo/shipp'd in the blaze 
That from its lofty altar shone, — 
Though fled the priests, the votaries gone, 
Still did the mighty dame burn on 2 
Through chance and chaj£e, through good 

and ill, 
Like its own God's eternal *i!.l, 
Deep, constant, bright, unquenshable ! 

Thither the vanquish'd Hafed led 

His little army's last remains ;- 
" Welcome, terrific glen !" he said, 
" Thy gloom, that Eblis' self might dread, 

Is heaven to him who flies from oiains !" 
O'er a dark, narrow bridge-way, known 
To him and to his chiefs alone, 
They cross'd the chasm and gain'd the 

towers ; — 
"This home," he cried, "at least is ouis — 
Here we may bleed, unmock'd by hymns 

Of Moslem triumph o'er our head ; 
Here we may fall, nor leave our limbs 

To quiver to the Moslem's tread. 
Stretch'd on this rock, while vultures' beaks 
Are whetted on our yet warm cheeks, 
Here — happy that no tyrant's eye 
Gloats on our torments — we may die !" 

'Twas night when to those towers they came, 
And gloomily the fitful flame, 
That from the ruin'd altar broke. 



■ Bubterra- 

' ''aI the city of Yezd in Persia, which is distinguished hy 
the appellation of the DarQb Abadut, or Seat of Religion, the 
Uuebres are permitted to have an Atnsh Kudu or Fire Temple 
(which they assert has had the sacred fire in it since the days 
of Zoroaster) in their own compartment of the city ; bat for 
thiB indulgence they are indebted to the avarice, not the toler 
»nce of the Persian government, which taxes them at twenty- 
«ve rupaes each man.''— Pattingtr's Beloochvstan. 



Glared on his features as he spoke : — 

" 'Tis o'er — what aien could do, we've done- 

If Iran will look tamely on, 

And see her priests, her warriors driven 

Before a sensual bigot's nod, 
A wretch who takes his lusts to heaven, 

And makes a pander of his God ! 
If her proud sons, her high-born souls, 

Men in whose veins — oh, last disgrace ! 
The blood of Zal and Rustatn 5 rolls, — 

If they will court this upstart race, 
And turn from Mithra's ancient ray, 
To kneel at shrines of yesterday ! 
If they icill crouch to Iran's foes, 

Why, let them — till the land's despair 
Cries out to Heaven, and bondage grows 

Too vile for even the vile to bear ! 
Till shame at last, long hidden, bums 
Their inmost core, and conscience turns 
Each coward tear the slave lets fall 
Back on his heart in drops of gall ! 
But here, at least, are arms unchain'd, 
And souls thfvt thraldom never stain'd ; — 

This spot, at least, no tool of slavt-. 
Or satrap ever yet profaned ; 

And though but few — though fast the wave 
Of life is ebbing from our veins, 
Enough for vengeance still remains 
As panthers, after set of sun, 
Rush from the roots of Lebanon 
Across the dark sea-robber's way, 
We'll bound upon our startled prey ; — 
And when some hearts that proudest swell 
Have felt our falchion's last farewell ; 
When Hope's expiring throb is o'er, 
And even Despair can prompt no more, 
This spot shall be the sacred grave 
Of the last few who, vainly brave, 
Die for the land they cannot save \ n 

His chiefs stood round — each shining blade 
Upon the broken altar laid — 
And though so wild and desolate 
Those courts, where once the mighty sate ; 
Nor longer on those mouldering towers 
Was seen the feast of fruits and flowers, 
With which of old the Magi fed 
The wandering spirits of their dead ;' 



» Ancient heroeB of Persia. "Among the Ghebers then' 
I »re some who boast their descent from Rustam." 

I* "Among other ceremonies, the Magi used to place upol 
the tops of high towers various kinds of rich viands, upoo 



128 



I 'OEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Though neither priest nor rites were there, 

Nor charm'd leaf of pure pomegranate; 1 
Nor hymn, nor censer's fragrant air, 

Nor symbol of their worshipp'd planet;' 
Yet the same God that heard their sires 
Heard them, while on that altar's fires 
They swore' the latest, holiest deed 
Of the few hearts still left to bleed, 
Should be in Iran's injured name 
To die upon that mount of flame — 
The last of all her patriot line, 
Before her last untrampled shrine ! 
Brave, suffering souls ! they little knew 
How many a tear their injuries drew 
Prom one meek heart, one gentle foe, 
Whom Love first touch'd with others' woe — 
Whose life, as free from thought as sin, 
Slept like a lake, till Love threw in 
His talisman, and woke the tide, 
And spread its trembling circles wide. 
Once, Emir! thy unheeding child, 
Mid all this havoc, bloom'd and smiled — 
Tranquil as on some battle-plain 

The Persian lily shines and towers/ 
Before the combat's reddening stain 

Had fallen upon her golden flowers. 
Light-hearted maid, unawed, unmoved, 
While Heaven but spared the sire she loved, 
Once at thy evening tales of blood 
Unlistening and aloof she stood — 
And oft, when thou hast paced along 

Thy Haram halls with furious heat, 
Hast thou not cursed her cheerful song, 

That came across thee, calm and sweet, 
Like lutes of angels, touch'd so near 
Hell's confines, that the damn'd can hear ? 
Far other feelings love has brought — 

Her soul all flame, her brow all sadness, 



which it was supposed the Peris and the spirits of their de- 
parted heroes regaled themselves." 

1 In the ceremonies of the Ghebers round their fire, as de- 
scribed by Lord, "The Daroo," he says, "giveth them water 
to drink, and a pomegranate leaf to chew in the mouth, to 
cleanse them from inward uncleanness." 

8 •' Early in the morning, they (the Parsees or Ghebers at 
Oulam) go in crowds to pay their devotions to the sun, to 
whom upon all the altars there are spheres consecrated, made 
by magic, resembling the circles of the sun, and when the snn 
riBes, these orbs seem to be inflamed, and to turn round with a 
great noise. They have every one a censer in their hands, 
»nd offer incense to the sun." 

* "Nul d'entre eux oseroit se perjurer, quand il a pris a 
temoin cet element terrible et vengeur."— Encyclopedie 
Francois. 

* "A vivid verdure Bucceeds tit autumnal rains, and the 
ploughed fields are covered with the Persian lily, of aresplen- 
tent y»llo w color."— Busier s Aleppo. 



She now has but the one dear thought, 

And thinks that o'er, almost to madness ! 
Oft doth her sinking heart recall 
His words — " For my sake, weep for all ;" 
And bitterly, as day on day 

Of rebel carnage fast succeeds, 
She weeps a lover snatch'd away 

In every Gheber wretch that bleeds. 
There's not a sabre meets her eye, 

But with his life-blood seems to swim; 
There's not an arrow wings the sky 

But fancy turns its point to him. 
No more she brings with footstep light 
Al Hassan's falchion for the fight; 
And — had he look'd with clearer sight, 
Had not the mists, that ever rise 
From a foul spirit, dimm'd his eyes- 
He would have mark'd her shuddering frame, 
When from the field of blood he came, 
The faltering speech — the look estranged — 
Voice, step, and life, and beauty changed ; 
He would have mark'd all this, and known 
Such change is wrought by love alone ! 

Ah ! not the love that should have bless'd 
So young, so innocent a breast ; 
Not the pure, open, prosperous love 
That, pledged on earth and seal'd above, 
Grows in the world's approving eyes, 

In friendship's smile and home's caress, 
Collecting all the heart's sweet ties 

Into one knot of happiness ! 
No, Hinda, no — thy fatal flame 
Is nursed in silence, sorrow, shame. 

A passion, without hope or pleasure, 
In thy soul's darkness buried deep 

It lies, like some ill-gotten treasure, — 
Some idol, without shrine or name, 
O'er which its pale-eyed votaries keep 
Unholy watch, while others sleep ! 

Seven nights have darken'd Oman's Sea, 
Since last, beneath the moonlight ray, 
She saw his light oar rapidly 

Hurry her Gheber's birk away ; 
And still she goes, at midnight hour, 
To weep alone in that high bower, 
And watch, and look along the deep 
For him whose smiles first made her weep,— 
But watching, weeping, all was vain, 
She never saw that bark again. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



129 



The owlet's solitary cry, 

The night-hawk, flitting darkly by, 

And oft the hateful carrion-bird, 
Heavily flapping his clogg'd wing, 
Which reek'd with that day's banqueting — 

Was all she saw, was all she heard. 

'Tis the eighth morn — Al Hassan's brow 

Is brighten'd with unusual joy — 
What mighty mischief glads him now, 

Who never smiles but to destroy ? 
The sparkle upon Herkend's Sea, 
When tost at midnight furiously, 1 
Tells not of wreck and ruin nigh, 
More surely than that smiling eye ! 
" Up, daughter, up — the KernaV breath 
Has blown a blast would waken Death, 
And yet thou sleepst — up, child, and see 
This blessed day for Heaven and me, 
A day more rich in Pagan blood 
Than ever flash'd o'er Oman's flood. 
Before another dawn shall shine, 
His head — heart — limbs — will all be mine ; 
This very night his blood shall steep 
These hands all over ere I sleep !" — 
" His blood !" she faintly scream'd — her mind 
Still singling one from all mankind. 

"Yes, spite of his ravines and towers, 
Hafed, my child, this night is ours. 
Thanks to all-conquering treachery, 

Without whose aid the links accurst, 
That bind these impious slaves, would be 

Too strong for Alla's self to burst ! 
That rebel fiend, whose blade has spread 
My path with piles of Moslem dead, 
Whose baffling spells had almost driven 
| Back from their course the swords of Heaven, 
This night, with all his band, shall know 
How deep an Arab's steel can go, 
When God and vengeance speed the blow. 
And — Prophet ! — by that holy wi-eath 
Thou worest on Ohod's field of death 
I swear, for every sob that parts 
In anguish from these heathen hearts, 



1 " It is observed, with respect to the Sea of Herkend, that 
when it is tossed by tempestuous winds it sparkles like fire." 

1 A kind of trumpet ;— it " was that used by Tamerlane, the 
•ouvi of which is so loud as to be heard at the distance of 
leverol miles." 

• " loSammed had two helmets, an interior and exterior 
we, ,ne latter of which, called Al Hawashah, the wreathed 
I he wore at the battle of Ohoa 






A gem from Persia's plunder'd mines 
Shall glitter on thy shrine of shrines. 
But, ha ! — she sinks — that look so wild— 
Those livid lips — my child, my child, 
This life of blood befits not thee, 
And thou must back to Araby. 

Ne'er had I risk'd thy timid sex 
In scenes that man himself might dread, 
Had I not hoped our every tread 

Would be on prostrate Persian necks — 
Curst race, they offer swords instead ! 
But cheer thee, maid, — the wind that now 
Is blowing o'er thy feverish brow 
To-day shall waft thee from the shore ; 
And, ere a drop of this night's gore 
Hath time to chill in yonder towers, 
Thou'lt see thy own sweet Arab bowers !" 

His bloody boast was all too true — 
There lurk'd one wretch among the few 
Whom Hafed's eagle eye could count 
Around him on that fiery mount, — 
One miscreant, who for gold betray'd 
The pathway through the valley's shade 
To those high towers where Freedom stood 
In her last hold of flame and blood 
Left on the field last dreadfiu night. 
When, sallying from their sacred height, 
The Ghebers fought hope's farewell fight, 
He lay — but died not with the brave ; 
That sun, which should have gilt his grave, 
Saw him a traitor and a slave ; — 
And, while the few, who thence return'd 
To their high rocky fortress, mourn'd 
For him among the matchless dead 
They left behind on glory's bed, 
He lived, and, in the face of morn, 
Laugh'd them and faith and heaven to scorn! 

Oh for a tongue to curse the slave, 

Whose treason, like a deadly blight, 
Comes o'er the counsels of the brave, 

And blasts them in their hour of might I 
May life's unblessed cup for him 
Be drugg'd with treacheries to the brim, — 
With hopes that but allure to fly, 

With joys that vanish while he sips, 
Like Dead-Sea fruits that tempt the eye,* 

But turn to ashes on the lips ! 






POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



His country's curse, his children's shame, 
Outcast of virtue, peace, and fame, 
Way he, at last, with lips of flame, 
On the parch'd desert thirsting die, — 
While lakes that shone in mockery nigh 1 
Are fading off, untouch'd, untasted, 
Like the once glorious hopes he blasted ! 
And, when from earth his spirit flies, 

Just Prophet, let the damn'd one dwell 
Full in the sight of Paradise, 

Beholding heaven, and feeling hell ! 

Lalla Rookh had had a dream the night 
"before, which, in spite of the impending fate 
of poor Hafed, made her heart more than 
usually cheerful during the morning, and 
gave her cheeks all the freshened animation 
of a flower that the Bid-musk had just passed 
over. 3 She fancied that she was sailing on 
that Eastern Ocean, where the sea-gipsies, 3 
who live forever on the water, enjoy a per- 
petual summer in wandering from isle to isle, 
when she saw a small gilded bark approach- 
ing her. It was like one of those boats 
•which the Maldivian islanders annually send 
adrift, at the mercy of winds and waves, 
loaded with perfumes, flowers, and odorifer- 
ous; wood, as an offering to the Spirit whom 
they call King of the Sea. At first this 
little bark appeared to be empty, but on 
coming; nearer 



ashes."— Thevenot. The same is asserted of the oranges there. 
— Vide Witman's Travels in Asiatic Turkey. 

Lord Byron has a similar allusion to the fruits of the Dead 
Sea, in that wonderful display of genius— his Third Canto of 
" Cbi'de Harold" — magnificent beyond anything, perhaps, that 
even lie has ever written. 

" "'he Shuhrab or Water of the Desert is said to be caused 
oy the refraction of the atmosphere from extreme heat ; and, 
which augments thedelusion, it is most frequent in hollows, 
where water might be expected to lodge. I have seen bushes 
and trees reflected in it, with as much acenracy as though it 
had been the face or a clear and still lake."— Potlinger. 

"As to the unbelievers, tlu'ir works are like a vapor in a 
plain, which the thirsty traveller thinketh to be water, until 
when he eometh thereto he fuideth it to be nothing." — Koran, 
chap. 24. 

* "A wind which prevails in February, called Bidmusk, 
from a small and odoriferous flower of that name." "The 
wind which blows these flowers commonly lasts till the end 
of the month."— Le Bruyn. 

3 "The Biajus are of two races; the one is settled on 
Borneo, and are a rude but warlike and industrious uation, 
who reckon themoelves the original possessors of the island 
of Borneo. The ottsr is a species of sea-gipsies or itinerant 
fishermen, who live in small covered boats, and enjoy a per- 
petual summer or f .be eastern ocean, shifting to leeward from 
sland to island, wisn the variations of the 
teyo>n on I he Indo- Chinese Nations. 



She had proceeded thus far in relati-ng the 
dream to her ladies, when Feramorz appeared 
at the door of the pavilion. In his presence 
of course, everything else was forgotten, 
and the continuance of the story was in- 
stantly requested by all. Fresh wood of 
aloes was set to burn in the cassolets ; — the 
violet sherbets* were hastily handed round, 
and, after a short prelude on his lute, in the 
pathetic measure of Nava, 6 which ia always 
used to express the lamentations of absent 
lovers, the poet thus continued : — 

The day is lowering — stilly black 
Sleeps the grim wave, while heaven's rack, 
Dispersed and wild, 'twixt earth and sky 
Hangs like a shatter'd canopy 1 
There's not a cloud in that blue plain 

But tells of storm to come or past ; — 
Here, flying loosely as the mane 

Of a young war-horse in the blast ; 
There, roll'd in masses dark and swelling, 
As proud to be the thunder's dwelling ! 
While some, already burst and riven, 
Seem melting down the verge of heaven ; 
As though the infant storm had rent 

The mighty womb that gave him birth, 
And, having swept the firmament, 

Was now in fierce career for earth. 
On earth 'twas all yet calm around, 
A pulseless silence, dread, profound, 
More awful than the tempest's sound. 
The diver steer'd for Ormus' bowers, 
And moor'd his skiff till calmer hours; 
The sea-birds, with portentous screech, 
Flew fast to land ; — upon the beach 
The pilot oft had paused with glance 
Turn'd upward to that wild expanse ; 
And all was boding, drear, and dark 
As her own soul, when Hinda's bark 
Went slowly from the Persian shore. 
No music timed her parting oar,' 
Nor friends upon the lessening strand 



« " The sweet-scented violet is one of the plants most es- 
teemed, particularly for its great use in Sorbet, which thej 
make of violet sugar." — Uasselguist. 

" The sherbet they most esteem, and which is drunk by th« 
Grand Signor himself, is made of violets and sugar."-* 
Tavernier. 

* "Last of all she took a guitar, and sang a pathetic air In 
the measure called Nava, which is always used to express 
lamentations of absent lovers."— Persian Tales. 

• "The Easterns used to set out on their longer voyvei 
with music." 






POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Linger'd to wave the unseen hand, 
Or speak the farewell, heard no more ; 
But lone, unheeded, from the bay 
The vessel takes its mournful way, 
Like some ill-destined bark that steers 
In silence through the Gate of Tears.' 

And where was stern Al Hassan then ? 
Could not that saintly scourge of men 
From bloodshed and devotion spare 
One minute for a farewell there ? 
No — close within, in changeful fits 
Of cursing and of prayer, he sits 
In savage loneliness to brood 
Upon the coming night of blood, 

With that keen, second-scent of death, 
By which the vulture snufl's his food 

In the still warm and living breath ! a 
Whilo o'er the wave his weeping daughter 
Is wafted from these scenes of slaughter, — 
As a young bird of Babylon, 
Let loose to tell of victory won, 
Flies home, with wing, ah ! not unstain'd 
By the red hands that held her chain'd. 
And does the long-left home she seeks 
Light up no gladness on her cheeks ? 
The flowers she nursed — the well-known 

groves, 
Where oft in dreams her spirit roves — 
Once more to see her dear gazelles 
Come bounding with their silver bells; 
Her birds' new plumage to behold, 

And the gay, gleaming fishes count, 
She left, all filleted with gold, 

Shooting around their jasper fount.' 
Her little garden mosque to see, 

And once again, at evening hour, 
To tell her ruby rosary* 

In her own sweet acacia bower. — 



1 " The Gate of Tears, the straits or passage into the Red 
Sea, called Babelmandeb. It received this name from the 
danger of the navigation and the number of shipwrecks by 
wmch it was distinguished ; which induced them to consider 
as dead all who had the boldness to hazard the passage 
thiongh it into the Ethiopic ocean." 

. 2 '• I have been told that, whensoever an animal falls down 
dead, one or more vultures, unseen before, instantly appear." 

8 " The Empress of Jehan-Guire used to divert herself with 
feeding tame fish in her canals, some of which were many 
years afterward known by fillets of gold which she caused to 
toe put round them." 

* Le Tespih, qui est nn chopelet, compose de 99 petites 
'onles d'agathe, de jaspe, d'ambre, de corail. on d'antre mati- 
ire prHCicuse. J'en ai va un superbe au Seigneur Jerpos ; il 
■«toit de belles et grosses perles parfaiten et ggales, estime' 
•-ente mille piastres."— Toderinl. 



Can these delights, that wait her low, 

Call up no sunshine on her brow ? 

No ; silent, from her train apart, — 

As if even now she felt at heart 

The chill of her approaching doom, — 

She sits, all-lovely in her gloom 

As a pale angel of the grave ; 

And o'er the wide, tempestuous wave, 

Looks, with a shudder, to those towers, 

Where, in a few short awful hours, 

Blood, blood, in steaming tides shall run, 

Foul incense for to-morrow's sun ! 

" Where art thou, glorious stranger ! thou, 

So loved, so lost, where art thou now ? 

Foe — Gheber — infidel — whate'er 

The unhallow'd name thou'rt doom'd to bear„ 

Still glorious — still to this fond heart 

Dear as its blood, whate'er thou art ! 

Yes — Alia, dreadful Alia ! yes — 

If there be wrong, be crime in this, 

Let the black waves that round us roll 

Whelm me this instant, ere my soul, 

Forgetting faith, — home, — father, — all — 

Before its earthly idol fall, 

Nor worship even thyself above him. 

For oh ! so wildly do I love him, 

Thy Paradise itself were dim 

And joyless, if not shared with him !" 

,Her hands were clasp'd — her eyes upturn'd, 

Dropping their tears like moonlight rain , 
And though her lip, fond raver, burn'd 

With words of passion, bold, profane, 
Yet was there light around her brow 

A holiness in those dark eyes, 
Which show'd — though wandering earth- 
ward now, — 

Her spirit's home was in the skies. 
Yes, — for a spirit pure as hers 
Is always pure, even while it errs ; 
As sunshine, broken in the rill, 
Though turn'd astray, is sunshine still I 

So wholly had her mind forgot 
All thoughts but one, she heedel not 
The rising storm — the wave that cast 
A moment's midnight, as it pass'd — 
Nor heard the frequent shout, the tread 
Of gathering tumult o'er her head — 
Clash'd swords, and tongues that seem'd to TM 
With the rude riot of the sky. — 






132 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



But hark ! — that warwhoop on the deck — 

That crash, as if each engine there, 
Masts, sails, and all were gone to wreck, 

Mid yells and stampings of despair ! 
Merciful Heaven ! what can it be? 
Tis not the storm, though fearfully 
The ship has shudder'd as she rode 
O'er mountain waves — " Forgive me, God ! 
Forgive me," shriek'd the maid, and knelt, 
Trembling all over, — for she felt 
As if her judgment-hour was near; 
While crouching round, half dead with fea», 
Her handmaids clung, nor breathed, nor 

stirr'd — 
When, hark ! — a second crash — a third ; 
And now, as if a bolt of thunder 
Had riven the laboring planks asunder, 
The deck falls in — what horrors then ! 
Elood, waves, and tackle, swords and men 
Come mix'd together through the chasm ; — 
Some wretches in their dying spasm 
Still fighting on — and some that call 
"For God and Iran !" as they fall. 

Whose was the hand that turn'd away 

The perils of the infuriate fray, 

And snatch'd her breathless from beneath 

This wilderment of wreck and death ? 

She knew not — for a faintness came 

Chill o'er her, and her sinking frame 

Amid the ruins of that hour 

Lay like a pale and scorched flower, 

Beneath the red volcano's shower ! 

But oh ! the sights and sounds of dread 

That shock'd her, ere her senses fled ! 

The yawning deck — the crowd that strove 

Upon the tottering planks above — 

The sail, whose fragments, shivering o'er 

The stragglers' heads, all dash'd with gore, 

Flutter'd like bloody flags — the clash 

Of sabres, and the lightning's flash 

Upon their blades, high toss'd about 

Like meteor brands' — as if throughout 

The elements one fury ran, 
One general rage, that left a doubt 

Which was the fiercer, Heaven or man ! 

Once, too — but no — it could not be — 

'Twas fancy all — yet once she thought, 
While yet her fading eyes could see, 

i The meteors that Pliny calls " Paces." 



High on the ruin'd deck she caught 
A glimpse of that unearthly form, 

That glory of her soul, — even then, 
Amid the whirl of wreck and storm, 

Shining above his fellow-men, 
As, on some black and troublous night, 
The star of Egypt, 2 whose proud light 
Never has beam'd on those who rest 
In the White Islands of the West, 
Burns through the storm with looks of flam* 
That put heaven's cloudier eyes to shamo 
But no — 'twas but the minute's dream — 
A fantasy— and ere the scream 
Had half-way pass'd her pallid lips, 
A death-like swoon, a chill eclipse 
Of soul and sense its darkness spread 
Around her, and she sunk, as dead ! 

How calm, how beautiful comes on 
The stilly hour, when storms are gone ; 
When warring winds have died away, 
And clouds, beneath the glancing ray, 
Melt off, and leave the land and sea 
Sleeping in bright tranquillity, — 
Fresh as if day again were born, 
Again upon the lap of Morn ! 
When the light blossoms, rudely torn 
And scatter'd at the whirlwind's will, 
Hang floating in the pure air still, 
Filling it all with precious balm, 
In gratitude for this sweet calm ; — 
And every drop the thunder showers 
Have left upon the grass and flowers 
Sparkles, as 'twere that lightning-gem' 
Whose liquid flame is born of them ! 

When, 'stead of one unchanging breeze^ 
There blow a thousand gentle airs, 
And each a different perfume bears, — 

As if the loveliest plants and trees 
Had vassal breezes of their own 
To watch and wait on them alone, 
And waft no other breath than theirs • 
When the blue waters rise and fall, 
In sleepy sunshine mantling all ; 
And even that swell the tempest leaves 
Is like the full and silent heaves 






3 " The brilliant Cannpus, unseen in European climates." 
' A precious stone of the Indies, called by the ancient* 
cerauniura. because it was supposed to be found in places 
where thunder had fallen. Tertullian says it has a glittering 
appearance, as if there had been fire in it ; and others suppos* 
it to be the opal. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Of lovers' hearts, when newly blest, 
Too newly to be quite at rest ! 

Such was the golden hour that broke 
Upon the world, when Hinda woke 
From her long trance, and heard around 
No motion but the water's sound 
Rippling against the vessel's side, 
As slow it mounted o'er the tide. — 
But where is she ? — her eyes are dark, 
Are wilder'd still — is this the bark, 
The same, that from Harmozia's bay 
Bore her at morn — whose bloody way 
The sea-dog tracks ? — no — strange and new 
Is all that meets her wondering view. 
Upon a galliot's deck she lies, 

Beneath no rich pavilion's shade, 
No plumes to fan her sleeping eyes, 

Nor jasmine on her pillow laid. 
But the rude litter, roughly spread 
With war-cloaks, is her homely bed, 
And shawl and sash, on javelins hung, 
For awning o'er her head are flung. 
Shuddering she look'd around — there lay 

A group of warriors in the sun 
Resting their limbs, as for that day 

Their ministry of death were done. 
Some gazing on the drowsy sea, 
Lost in unconscious reverie ; 
And some, who seem'd but ill to brook 
That sluggish calm, with many a look 
To the slack sail impatient cast, 
As loose it flagg'd around the mast. 

Blest Alia ! who shall save her now ? 

There's not in all that warrior-band 
One Arab sword, one turban'd brow, 

From her own faithful Moslem land. 
Their garb — the leathern belt that wraps 

Each yellow vest 1 — that rebel hue — 
The Tartar fleece upon their caps" — 

Yes — yes — her fears are all too true, 
And Heaven hath, in this dreadful hour, 
Abandon'd her to Hafed's power ; — 
Hafed, the Gheber ! — at the thought 

Her very heart's-blood chills within ; 
He, whom her soul was hourly taught 

To loathe, as some foul fiend of sin, 



i " The Ohebers are known by a dark yellow color which 
the men affect in their clothes." 

1 " The Eolah, or cap, worn by the Persians, is made of the 
lkin of the sheep ofTartary." 



Some minister — whom hell had sent 
To spread its blast where'er he went, 
And ^ing, as o'er our earth he trod, 
His shadow betwixt man and God ! 
And she is now his captive, thrown 
In his fierce hands, alive, alone ; 
His the infuriate band she sees, 
All infidels— all enemies ! 
What was the daring hope that then 
Cross'd her like lightning, as again, 
With boldness that despair had lent, 

She darted through that armed crowd 
A look so searching, so intent, 

That even the sternest warrior bow'd 
Abash'd, when he her glances caught, 
As if he guess'd whose form they sought ? 
But no — she sees him not — 'tis gone, — 
The vision, that before her shone 
Through all the maze of blood and storm, 
Is fled — 'twas but a phantom form- 
One of those passing rainbow dreams, 
Half light, half shade, which Fancy's 
Paint on the fleeting mists that roll 
In trance or slumber round the soul ! 

But now the bark, with livelier bound, 
Scales the blue wave — the crew's \A 
motion — 
The oars are out, and with light sound 

Break the bright mirror of the ocean, 
Scattering its brilliant fragments round. 
And now she sees — with honor sees — 
Their course is toward that mountain hold, — 
Those towers, that make her life-blood freeze, 
Where Mecca's godless enemies 
Lie, like beleaguer'd scorpions, roll'd 
In their last deadly, venomous fold ! 
Amid the illumined land and flood 
Sunless that mighty mountain stood, 
Save where, above its awful head, 
There shone a flaming cloud, blood-red, 
As 'twere the flag of destiny 
Hung out to mark where death would be ! 

Had her bewilder'd mind the power 

Of thought in this terrific hour, 

She well might marvel where or how 

Man's foot could scale that mountain's brow; 

Since ne'er had Arab heard or known 

Of path but through the glen alone. — 

But every thought is lost in fear, 



134 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



When, as their bounding hark drew near 
The craggy base, she felt the waves 
Hurry them toward those dismal caves 
That from the deep in windings pass 
Beneath that mount's volcanic mass — 
And loud a voice on deck commands 
To lower the mast and light the brands ! — 
Instantly o'er the dashing tide 
Within a cavern's mouth they glide, 
Gloomy as that eternal porch 

Through which departed spirits go ; — 
Not even the flare of brand and torch 

Its flickering light could further throw 

Than the thick flood that boil'd below. 
Silent they floated — as if each 
Sat breathless, and too awed for speech 
In that dark chasm, where even sound 
Seem'd dark, — so sullenly around 
The goblin echoes of the cave 
Mutter'd it o'er the long black wave, 
As 'twere some secret of the grave ! 
But soft — they pause — the current turns 

Beneath them from its onward track ; — 
Some mighty, unseen barrier spurns 

The vexed tide, all foaming, back, 
And scarce the oar's redoubled force : 
Can stem the eddy's whirling course 
When, hark !— some desperate foot has sprung 
Among the rocks — the chain is flung — 
The oars are up — the grapple clings) 
And the toss'd bark in moorings swings. 
Just then, a day-beam through the shade 
Broke tremulous — but, ere the maid 
Can see from whence the brightness steals, 
Upon her brow she shuddering feels 
A viewless hand, that promptly ties 
A bandage round her burning eyes; 
While the rude litter where she lies, 
Uplifted by the warrior throng, 
O'er the steep rocks is borne along. 

Blest power of sunshine ! genial Day, 
What balm, what life is in thy ray ! 
To feel thee is such real bliss, 
That had the world no joy but this, — 
To sit in sunshine calm and sweet, — 
It were a world too exquisite 
For man to leave it for the gloom, 
The deep, cold shadow of the tomb ! 
Even Ilinda, though she saw not where 
Or whither wound the perilous road, 



Tet knew by that awakening air, 

Which suddenly around her glow'd, 
That they had risen from darkness then, 
And breathed the sunny world again ! 
But soon this balmy freshness fled — 
For now the steepy labyrinth led 
Through damp and gloom — 'mid crash of 

boughs, 
And fall of loosen'd crags that rouse 
The leopard from his hungry sleep, 

Who, starting, thinks each crag a prey, 
And long is heard from steep to steep, 

Chasing them down their thundering way . 
The jackal's cry — the distant moan 
Of the hyaena, fierce and lone ; — 
And that eternal, saddening sound 

Of torrents in the glen beneath, 
As 'twere the ever-dark profound 

That rolls beneath the Bridge of Death I 
All, all is fearful — even to see, 

To gaze on those terrific things 
She now but blindly hears, would be' 

Relief to her imaginings ! 
Since never yet. was shape so dread, 

But fancy, thus in darkness thrown, 
And by su«h sounds of horror fed, 

Could frame more dreadful of her own. 

But does she dream ? has fear again 

Perplex'd the workings of her brain, 

Or did a voice, all music, then 

Come from the gloom, low whispering near — 

" Tremble not, love, thy Gheber's here ?" 

She does not dream — all sense, all ear, 

She drinks the words, "Thy Gheber's here." 

'Twas his own voice — she could not err — 

Throughout the breathing world's extent 
There was but one such voice for her, 
So kind, so soft, so eloquent ! 
Oh ! sooner shall the rose of May 

Mistake her own sweet, nightingale, 
And to some meaner minsti-el's lay 

Open her bosom's glowing veil, 1 
Than Love shall ever doubt a tone, 
A breath of the beloved one ! 
Though blest, 'mid all her ills, to think 

She has that one beloved near, 
Whose smile, though met on ruin's brink, 



1 " A frequent image among the oriental po-'ts. ' Th« nighfc 
ingales warbled their enchanting notes, and rent the thim velll 
of the rose-bud and the rose.' " 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



135- 



Has power to make even ruin dear, — 
Yet soon this gleam of rapture, cross'd 
By fears for him, is chill'd and lost. 
How shall the ruthless Hafed brook 
That one of Gheber blood should look, 
With aught but curses in his eye, 
On her — a maid of Araby — 
A Moslem maid — the child of him 

Whose bloody banner's dire success 
Has left their altars cold and dim, 

And their fair land a wilderness ! 
And, worse than all, that night of blood 

Which comes so fast — oh ! who shall stay 
The sword that once has tasted food 
Of Persian hearts, or turn its way ? 
What arm shall then the victim cover, 
Or from her father shield her lover? 
g Save him, my God !" she inly cries — 
■ l Save him this night — and if thine eyes 

Have ever welcomed with delight 
The sinner's tears, the sacrifice 
Of sinners' hearts — guard him this night, 
And here, before Thy throne, I swear 
From my heart's inmost core to tear 

Love, hope, remembrance, though they be 
Link'd with each quivering life-string there, 

And give it bleeding all to Thee ! 
Let him but live, the burning tear, 
The sighs, so sinful y«fc so dear, 
Which have been all too much his own, 
Shall from this hour be Heaven's alone. 
Youth pass'd in penitence, and age 
In long and painful pilgrimage, 
Shall leave no traces of the flame 
That wastes me now — nor shall his name 
E'er bless my lips, but when I pray 
For his dear spirit, that away 
Casting from its angelic ray 
The eclipse of earth, he too may shine 
Redeem'd, all-glorious and all Thine ! 
Think — think what victory to win 
One radiant soul like his from sin ; — 
One wandering star of virtue back 
To its own native, heavenward track ! 
Let him but live, and both are Thine, 

Together Thine— for, blest or cross'd, 
Living or dead, his doom is mine, 

And if he perish, both are lost !" 

The next evening Lalla Rookh was en- 
treated by her ladies to continue the relation 



of her wonderful dream ; but the fearfiv) 
interest that hung round the fate of Hinda 
and her lover had completely removed every 
trace of it from her mind — much to the dis- 
appointment of a fair seer or two in her 
train, who prided themselves on their skill 
in interpreting visions, and who had already 
remarked, as an unlucky omen, that th» 
Princess, on the very morning after the 
dream, had worn a silk dyed with the blos- 
soms of the sorrowful tree Nilica. 1 

Fadladeen, whose wrath had more than 
once broken out during the recital of some 
parts of this most heterodox poem, seemed 
at length to have made up his mind to the 
infliction ; and took bis seat this evening 
with all the patience of a martyr, while the 
poet continued his profane and seditious 
story thus : — 



To tearless eyes and hearts at ease 
The leafy shores and sun-bright seas 
That lay beneath that mountain's height 
Had been a fair, enchanting sight. 
'Twas one of those ambrosial eves 
A day of storm so often leaves 
At its calm setting — when the West 
Opens her golden bowers of rest, 
And a moist radiance from the skies 
Shoots trembling down, as from "the eyes 
Of some meek penitent, whose last, 
Bright hours atone for dark ones past, 
And whose sweet tears, o'er wrong forgiven, 
Shine, as they fall, with light from heaven I 
'Twas stillness all — the winds that late 

Had rush'd through Kerman's almond 
groves, 
And shaken from her bowers of date 

That cooling feast the traveller loves, 1 
Now, lull'd to languor, scarcely curl 
The Green Sea wave, whose waters gleam, 
Limpid, as if her mines of pearl 

Were melted all to form the stream. 
And her fair islets, small and bright, 

With their green shores reflected there, 



1 "Blossoms of the sorrowful Nyctanthes give a dnrabl* 
color to silk." — Remarks on. the husbandry of Bengal, p. 200. 
" Nilica is one of the Indian names of tbis flower."— Sir W. 
Jones. " The Persians call it Gul."— Carreri. 

3 "In parts of Kerman, whatever dates are saaken from the 
trees by the wind, they leave for those who hive not any, oj 
for travellers." 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Look like those Peri isles of light, 
That hang by spell-work in the air. 

But vainly did those glories burst 
On Hinda's dazzled eyes, when first 
The bandage from her brow was taken, 
And pale and awed as those who waken 
In their dark tombs — when, scowling near, 
The searchers of the grave 1 appear, — 
She, shuddering, turn'd to read her fate 

In the fierce eyes that flash'd around ; 
And saw those towers all desolate, 

That o'er her head terrific frown'd, 
As if defying even the smile 
Of that soft heaven to gild their pile. 
In vain, with mingled hope and fear, 
She looks for him whose voice so dear 
Had come, like music, to her ear — 
Strange, mocking dream ! again 'tis fled. 
And oh ! the shoots, the pangs of dread 
That through her inmost bosom run, 

When voices from without proclaim, 
"Hafed, the Chief" — and, one by one, 

The warriors shout that fearful name ! 
He comes — the rock resounds his tread — 
How shall she dare to lift her head, 
Or meet those eyes, whose scorching glare 
Not Yeman's boldest sons can bear ? 
In whose red beam, the Moslem tells, 
Such rank and deadly lustre dwells, 
As in those hellish fires that light 
The mandrake's charnel leaves at night I" 
How shall she bear that voice's tone, 
At whose loud battle-cry alone 
Whole squadrons oft in panic ran, 
Scatter'd, like some vast caravan, 
When, stretch'd at evening round the well, 
They hear the thirsting tiger's yell ! 

Breathless she stands, with eyes cast down, 
Shrinking beneath the fiery frown, 
Which, fancy tells her, from that brow 
Is flashing o'er her fiercely now ; 
And shuddering, as she hears the tread 

Of his retiring warrior band. 
Never was pause so full of dread ; 

Till Hafed, with a trembling hand, 
Took hers, and, leaning o'er her, said, 



1 " The two terrible angels, Monkir and Naklr, who i 
called ' The Searchers of the Grave.' " 

• "The Arabians call the mandrake ' The Devil'B Cand 
m account of its shining appearance in the night" 



" Hinda !" — that word was all he spoke ; 
And 'twas enough — the shriek that broke 

From her full bosom told the rest — 
Breathless with terror, joy, surprise, 
The maid but lifts her wondering eyes 

To hide them on her Gheber's breast I 
'Tis he, 'tis he — the man of blood, 
The fellest of the Fire-Fiend's brood. 
Hafed, the demon of the fight, 
Whose voice unnerves, whose glanoet 

blight, 
Is her own loved Gheber, mild 
And glorious as when first he smiled 
In her lone tower, and left such beams 
Of his pure eye to light her dreams, 
That she believed her bower had given 
Rest to some habitant of heaven ! 

Moments there are, and this was one, 
Snatch'd like a minute's gleam of sun 
Amid the black Simoom's eclipse — 

Or like those verdant spots that bloom 
Around the crater's burning lips, 

Sweetening the very edge of doom I 
The past — the future — all that fate 
Can bring of dark or desperate 
Around such hours, but makes them cast 
Intenser radiance while they last ! 

Even he, this youth — though dimm'd and 

gone 
Each star of hope that cheer'd him on — 
His glories lost — his cause betray'd — 
Iran, his dear-loved country, made 
A land of carcases and slaves, 
One dreary waste of chains and graves — 
Himself but lingering, dead at heart, 

To see the last, long-struggling breath 
Of liberty's great soul depart, 

Then lay him down, and share her death — 
Even he, so sunk in wretchedness, 

With doom still darker gathering o'er him, 
Yet in this moment's pure caress, 

In the mild eyes that shone before him, 
Beaming that blest assurance, worth 
All other transports known on earth, 
That he was loved — well, warmly loved — 
Oh ! in this precious hour he proved 
How deep, how thorough-felt the glow 
Of rapture, kindling out of woe ; — 
How exquisite one single drop 






POEMS OF THOMAS MOOKE. 



Of bliss, thus sparkling to the top 
Of misery's cup — how keenly quaff'd, 
Though death must follow on the draught ! 

She, too, while gazing on those eyes 

That sink into her soul so deep, 
Forgets all fears, all miseries, 

Or feels them like the wretch in sleep, 
Whom fancy cheats into a smile, 
Who dreams of joy, and sobs the while ! 
The mighty ruins where they stood, 

Upon the mount's high rocky verge, 
Lay open toward the ocean's flood, 

Where lightly o'er the illumined surge 
Many a fair bark that all the day 
Had lurk'd in sheltering creek or bay 
Now bounded on and gave their sails, 
Yet dripping, to the evening gales, — 
Like eagles, when the storm is done, 
Spreading their wet wings in the sun. 
The beauteous clouds, though daylight's 

star 
Had sunk behind the hills of Lar, 
Were still with lingering glories bright, — 
As if to grace the gorgeous west, 

The spirit of departing light 
That eve had left his sunny vest 

Behind him, ere he wing'd his flight. 
Never was scene so form'd for love! 
Beneath them, waves of crystal move 
In silent swell — heaven glows above,. 
And their pure hearts, to transport given, 
Swell like the wave, and glow like heaven ! 
But ah ! too soon that dream is past — 

Again, again her fear returns ; — 
Night, dreadful night, is gathering fast, 

More faintly the horizon burns, 
And every rosy tint that lay 
On the smooth sea has died away. 
Hastily to the darkening skies 
A glance she casts — then wildly cries, 
"At night, he said — and, look, 'tis near — 

Fly, fly — if yet thou lovest me, fly — 
Soon will his murderous band be here, 

And I shall see thee bleed and die. 
Hush ! — heardst thou not the tramp of men 
Sounding from yonder fearful glen ? — 
Perhaps even now they climb the wood. 

Fly, fly — though still the west is bright, 
He'll come — oh ! yes — he wants thy blood — 

I know him — he'll not wait for night !" 



In terrors even to agony 

She clings around the wondering Chief;— 
" Alas, poor wilder'd maid ! to me 

Thou owest this raving trance of grief. 
Lost as I am, naught ever grew 
Beneath my shade but perish'd too — 
My doom is like the Dead Sea air, 
And nothing lives that enters there ! 
Why were our barks together driven 
Beneath this morning's furious heaven ? 
Why, when I saw the prize that chance 

Had thrown into my desperate arms, — 
When, casting but a single glance 

Upon thy pale and prostrate charms, 
I vow'd (though watching viewless o'er 

Thy safety through that hour's alarms) 
To meet the unmanning sight no more — 
Why have I broke that heart-wrung vow? 
Why weakly, madly met thee now ? — 
Start not — that noise is but the shock 

Of torrents through yon valley hurl'd — 
Dread nothing here — upon this rock 

We stand above the jarring world, 
Alike beyond its hope — its dread — 
In gloomy safety, like the dead ! 
Or, could even earth and hell unite 
In league to storm this sacred height, 
Fear nothing thou — myself, to-night, 
And each o'erlooking star that dwells 
Near God will be thy sentinels ; — 
And, ere to-morrow's dawn shall glow, 
Back to thy sire- — " 

" To-morrow ! — no—-" 
The maiden scream'd — " thou'lt never see 
To-morrow's sun — death, death will be 
The night-cry through each reeking tower, 
Unless we fly — ay, fly this hour ! 
Thou art betray'd : some wretch who knew 
That dreadful glen's mysterious clew- 
Nay, doubt not — by yon stars, 'tis true — - 
Hath sold thee to my vengeful sire ; 
This morning, with that smile so dire 
He wears in joy, he told me all, 
And stamp'd in triumph through our hall, 
As though thy heart already beat 
Its last life-throb beneath his feet ! 
Good heaven, how little dream'd I then 

His victim was my own loved youth !— 
Fly. — send — let some one watch the glen— ■ 

By all my hopes of heaven, 'tis tr»th ! n 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Ob ! colder than the wind that freezes 

Founts, that but now in sunshine play'd, 
Is that congealing pang which seizes 

The trusting bosom when betray'd. 
He felt it — deeply felt — and stood, 
As if the tale had frozen his blood, 

So mazed and motionless was he ; — 
Like one whom sudden spells enchant, 
Or some mute marble habitant 

Oi the still halls of Ishmonie! 1 

But soon the painful chill was o'er, 
And his great soul, herself once more, 
Look'd from his brow in all the ra3 r s 
Of her best, happiest, grandest days; 
Never, in moment most elate, 

Did that high spirit loftier rise; — 
While bright, serene, determinate, 

His looks are lifted to the skies, 
As if the signal-lights of Fate 

"Were shining in those awful eyes ! 
'Tis come — his hour of martyrdom 
In Iran's sacred cause is come ; 
And though his life has pass'd away 
Like lightning on a stormy day, 
Yet shall Li? death-hour leave a track 

Of glory, permanent and bright, 
To which the brave of after-times, 
The suffering brave, shall long look back 

With proud regret, — and by its light 

Watch through the hours of slavery's night 
For vengeance on the oppressor's crimes ! 
This rock, his monument aloft, 

Shall speak the tale to many an age ; 
And hither bards and heroes oft 

Shall come in secret pilgrimage, 
And bring their warrior rons, and tell 
The wondering boys where Hafed full, 
And swear them on those lone remains 
Of their lost country's ancient fanes, 
Never — while breach of life shall live 
Within them — never to forgive 
The accursed race, whose ruthless chain 
Has left on Ir7n's neck a stain 
Blood, blood alone can cleanse again ! 

Such are the swelling thoughts that now 
Enthrone themselves on Hafed's brow : 



1 For an account i{ iBhmonie. the petrified city in Upper 
Egypt, where it is said there are many statues of men, women, 
&c., to be seen to this day, vide Perry's " View of the Levant. " 



And ne'er did saint of Issa* gaze 

On the red wreath, for martyrs twined, 
More proudly than the youth surveys 

That pile, which through the gloom behind, 
Half-lighted by the altar's fire, 
Glimmers, — his destined funeral pyre ! 
Heap'd by his own, his comrades' hands, 

Of every wood of odorous breath, 
There, by the Fire-God's shrine it stands, 

Ready to fold in radiant death 
The few still left of those who swore 
To perish there, when hope was o'er — 
The few to whom that couch of flame, 
Which rescues them from bonds and shame, 
Is sweet and welcome as the bed 
For their own infant Prophet spread, 
When pitying Heaven to roses turn'd 
The death-flames that beneath him buru'd 1* 

With watchfulness the maid attends 
His rapid glance, where'er it bends- 
Why shoot his eyes such awful beams ? 
What plans he now ? wh at thinks or drea, aa T 
Alas ! why stands he musing here, 
When every moment teems with fear ? 
" Hafed, my own beloved lord," 
She kneeling cries — " first, last adored t 
If in that soul thou'st ever felt 

Half what thy lips impassion'd swore, 
Here, on my knees that never knelt 

To any but their God before, 
I pray thee, as thou lovest me, fly — 
Now, now — ere yet their blades are nigh 
Oh haste — the bai-k that bore me hither 

Can waft us o'er yon darkening sea 
East, west, — alas, I care not whither, 

So thou art safe, and I with thee ! 
Go where we will, this hand in thine, 

Those eyes before me smiling thus, 
Through good and ill, through storm had 
shine, 

The world's a world of love for us ! 



3 Jesus. 

» "The Ghebers say that when Abraham, their great 
prophet, was thrown into the fire by order of Nimrod, the 
flame turned instantly into ' a bed of rosea, where the child 
sweetly reposed.' " 

Of their other prophet Zoroa6ter, there is a story told in 
Dion Frvsceus, Orat. 36, that the love of wisdom and virtue 
leading him to a solitary life upon a mountain, he found itone 
day all in a flame, shining with celestial fire, out of which he 
came without any harm, and instituted certain sacrifices to 
God, who, he declared, then appeared to him. Vide " Patric > 
on Exodus," ii. S. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



13» 



On some calm, blessed shore we'll dwell, 
Whore 'tis no crime to love too well ; — 
Where thus to worship tenderly 
An erring child of light like thee 
Will not be sin — or, if it be, 
Where we may weep our faults away, 
Together kneeling, night and day, 
Thou, for my sake, at Alla's shrine, 
And I — at any God's, for thine I" 

Wildly these passionate words she spoke — 
Then hung her head, and wept for shame ; 
Sobbing, as if a heart-string broke 

With every deep-heaved sob that came. 
While he, young, warm — oh ! wonder not 
If, for a moment, pride and fame, 
His oath — his cause — that shrine of flame, 
And Iran's self are all forgot 
For her whom at his feet he sees, 
Kneeling in speechless agonies. 
No, blame him not, if Hope a while 
Dawn'd in his soul, and threw her smile 
O'er hours to come — o'er days and nights 
Wing'd with those precious, pure delights 
Which she, who bends all-beauteous there, • 
Was born to kindle and to share ! 
A tear or two, which, as he bow'd 

To raise the suppliant, trembling stole, 
First warn'd him of this dangerous cloud 

Of softness passing o'er his soul. 
Starting, he brush'd the drops away, 
Unworthy o'er that cheek to stray ; — 
Like one who, on the morn of fight, 
Shakes from his sword the dew of night, 
That had but dimm'd, not stain'd its light. 

Yet though subdued the unnerving thrill, 
Its warmth, its weakness linger'd still 

So touching in each look and tone, 
That the fond, fearing, hoping maid 
Half counted on the flight she pray'd, 

Half thought the hero's soul was grown 

As soft, as yielding as her own, 
And smiled and bless'd him, while he said, — 
" Yes — if there be some happier sphere, 
Where fadeless truth like ours is dear ; — 
If there be any land of rest 

For those who love and ne'er forget, 
Oh ! comfort thee — for safe and blest 

We'll meet in that calm region yet !" 
Scarce had she time to ask her heart 



If good or ill these words impart, 
When the roused youth impatient flew 
To the tower-wall, where, high in view, 
A ponderous sea-horn 1 hung, and blew 
A signal, deep and dread as those 
The Storm-Fiend at his rising blows. — 
Full well his chieftains, sworn and true 
Through life and death, that signal knew ;, 
For 'twas the appointed warning-blast, 
The alarm to tell when hope was past, 
And the tremendous death-die cast ! 
And there, upon the mouldering tower, 
Has hung his sea-horn many an hour, 
Ready to sound o'er land and sea 
That dirge-note of the brave and free. 

They came — his chieftains at the call 
Came slowly round, and with them all — 
Alas, how few ! — the worn remains 
Of those who late o'er Herman's plains 
Went gayly prancing to the clash 

Of Moorish zel and tymbalon, 
Catching new hope from every flash 

Of their long lances in the sun — 
And as their coursers charged the wind, 
And the white ox-tails stream'd behind," 
Looking as if the steeds they rode 
Were wing'd, and every chief a god ! 
How fallen, how alter'd now ! how wan 
Each scarr'd and faded visage shone, 
As round the burning shrine they came f— 

How deadly was the glare it cast, 
As mute they paused before the flame 

To light their torches as they pass'd ! 
'Twas silence all — the youth had plann'd 
The duties of his soldier-band ; 
And each determined brow declares 
His faithful chieftains well know theirs. 

But minutes speed — night gems the skies — 
And oh how soon, ye blessed eyes 
That look from heaven, ye may behold 
Sights that will turn your star-fires cold ! 
Breathless with awe, impatience, hope, 
The maiden sees the veteran group 



> " The shell called Siiankos, common to India, Africa, and 
the Mediterranean, and Btill used in many parts as a trumpet 
for blowing alarms or giving signals : it sends forth a deep 
and hollow sonnd." 

a " The finest ornament for the horses is made of six large 
flying tassels of long white hair, taken out of the tails of wild 
oxen that are to he found in some places of the Indies." 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Her Htter silently prepare, 

And lay it at her trembling feet ; — 
And now the youth, with gentle care, 

Has placed her in the shelter'd seat, 
And press'd her hand — that lingering press 

Of hands, that for the last time sever ; 
Of hearts, whose pulse of happiness, 

When that hold breaks, is dead forever. 
And yet to her this sad caress 

Gives hope — so fondly hope can err ! 
'Twas joy, she thought, joy's mute excess — 

Their happy flight's dear harbinger ; 
'Twas warmth — assurance — tenderness— 

'Twas anything but leaving her. 

" Haste, haste !" she cried, " the clouds grow 

dark, 
But still, ere night, we'll reach the bark : 
And by to-morrow's dawn — oh, bliss ! 

With thee upon the sunbright deep, 
Far off, I'll but remember this 

As some dark vanish'd dream of sleep ! 
And thou " But ha ! — he answers not — 

Good Heaven ! — and dpes she go alone ? 
She now has reach'd that dismal spot 

Where, some hours since, his voice's tone 
Had come to soothe her fears and ills, 
Sweet as the angel Israfil's 1 
When every leaf on Eden's tree 
Is trembling to his minstrelsy — 
Yet now — oh now, he is not nigh — 

" Hafed ! my Hafed ! — if it be 
Thy will, thy doom this night to die, 

Let me but stay to die with thee, 
And I will bless thy loved name, 
Till the last life-breath leave this frame. 
Oh ! let our lips, our cheeks be laid 
But near each other while they fade; 
Let us but mix our parting breaths, 
And I can die ten thousand deaths ! 
You too, who hurry me away 
So cruelly, one moment stay — 

Oh ! stay — one moment is not much — 
He yet may come — for him I pray — 
Hafed ! dear Hafed ! " All the way, 

In wild lamentings that would touch 
A heart of stone, she shriek'd his name 
To the dark woods — no Hafed came ; — 
No — hapless pair — you've looked your last; 



Your hearts should both have broken 
then : 
The dream is o'er — your doom is cast — 
You'll never meet on earth again ! 

Alas for him, who hears her cries ! — 

Still half-way down the steep he stands, 
Watching with fix'd and feverish eyes 

The glimmer of those burning brands 
That down the rocks, with mournful ray, 
Light all he loves on earth away 1 
Hopeless as they who, far at sea, 

By the cold moon have just consign'd 
The corse of one, loved tenderly, 

To the bleak flood they leave behind; 
And on the deck still lingering stay, 
And long look back, with sad delay, 
To watch the moonlight on the wave, 
That ripples o'er that cheerless grave. 

But see — he starts — what heard he then ? 
That dreadful shout ! — across the glen 
From the land side it comes, and loud 
Rings through the chasm ; as if the crowd 
Of fearful things that haunt that dell, 
Its ghouls and dives, and shapes of hell, 
Had all in one dread howl broke out, 
So loud, so terrible that shout ! 
" They come — the Moslems come !" — h» 

cries, 
His proud soul mounting to his eyes, — 
" Now, spirits of the brave, who roam 
Enfranchised through yon starry dome, 
Rejoice — for souls of kindred fire 
Are on the wing to join your choir !" 
He said — and, light as bridegrooms bound 

To their young loves, re-climb'd the steep 
And gain'd the shrine — his chiefs stood 

round — ■ 
Their swords, as with instinctive leap. 
Together, at that cry accurst, 
Had from their sheaths, like sunbeams, burst, 
And hark ! — again — again it rings ; 
Near and more near its echoings 
Peal through the chasm — oh ! who that then 
Had seen those listening warrior-men, 
With their swords grasp'd, their eyes of flame 
Turn'd on their chief— could doubt the 

shame, 
The indignant shame with which they thriU 
To hear those shouts and jet stand still? 






POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



He read their thoughts — they were his 
own — 

" What ! while our arms can wield these 
blades, 
Shall we die tamely ? die alone ? 

Without one victim to our shades, 
One Moslem heart where, buried deep, 
The sabre from its toil may sleep ? 
No — God of Iran's burning skies ! 
Thou scornst the inglorious sacrifice. 
No — though of all earth's hope bereft, 
Life, swords, and vengeance still are left. 
We'll make yon valley's reeking caves 

Live in the awe-struck minds of men, 
Till tyrants shudder when their slaves 

Tell of the Ghebers' bloody glen. 
Follow, brave hearts ! — this pile remains 
Our refuge still from life and chains ; 
But his the best, the holiest bed, 
Who sinks entomb'd in Moslem dead !" 

Down the precipitous rocks they sprung, 
TV hile vigor more that human strung 
Each arm and heart. — The exulting foe 
Stid through the dark defiles oe.c ft 
Track'd by his torches' lurid fire, 

Wound slow, as through Golconda's valt 
The mighty serpent, in his ire, 

Glides on with glittering, deadly trail. 
No torch the Ghebers need — so well 
They know each mystery of the dell, 
So oft have, in their wanderings, 
Cross'd the wild race that round them dwell, 
The very tigers from their delves 
Look out, and let them pass, as things 
Untamed and fearless like themselves ! 

There was a deep ravine that lay 

Yet darkling in the Moslem's way ; — 

Fit spot to make invaders rue 

The many fallen before the few. 

The torrents from that morning's sky 

Had fill'd the narrow chasm breast-high, 

And, on each side, aloft and wild 

Huge cliffs and toppling crags were pilea. — 

The guards, with which young Freedom lines 

The pathways to her mountain shrines. 

Here, at this pass, the scanty band 

Of Iran's last avengers stand ; — 

Here wait, in silence like the dead, 

And listen for the Moslem'' *,read 



I So anxiously, the carrion bird 

j Above them flajss his wing unheard ! 

They come — that plunge into the water 
Gives signal for the work of slaughter. 
Now, Ghebers, now — if e'er your blades 

Had point or prowess, prove them now — 
Woe to the file that foremost wades ! 

They come — a falchion greets each brow. 
And, as they tumble, trunk on trunk, 
Beneath' the gory waters sunk, 
Still o'er their drowning bodies press 
New victims quick and numberless ; 
Till scarce an arm in Hafed's band, 

So fierce their toil, hath power to stir, 
But listless from each crimson hand 

The sword hangs, clogg'd with massacre. 
Never was horde of tyrants met 
With bloodier welcome — never yet 
To patriot vengeance hath the sword 
More terrible libations pour'd ! 
All up the dreary, long ravine, 
By the red, murky glimmer seen 
Of half-quench'd brands, that o'er the flood 
Lie scxttei d lcucd sni burn in blood, 
What ruin glares ! what carnage swims ! 
Heads, blazing turbans, quivering limbs, 
Lost swords that, dropp'd from many a hand, 
In that thick pool of slaughter stand ; — 
Wretches who wading, half on fire 

From the toss'd brands that round them 

'Twixt flood and flame, in shrieks expire ; — 
And some who, grasp'd by those that die^ 
Sink woundless with them, smother'd o'er 
In their dead brethren's gushing gore ! 

But vainly hundreds, thousands bleed, 
Still hundreds, thousands more succeed !— 
Countless as toward some flame at night 
The North's dark insects wing their flight, 
And quench or perish in its light, 
To this terrific spot they pour — 
Till, bridged with Moslem bodies o'er, 
It bears aloft their slippery tread, 
And o'er the dying and the dead, 
Tremendous causeway! on they pass.- 
Then, hapless Ghebers, then, alas, 
What hope was left for you ? for you, 
Whose yet warm pile of sacrifice 
Is smoking in their vengeful eyes — 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Whose swords how keen, how fierce they 

knew, 
And burn with shame to find how few. 
Crush'd down by that vast multitude, 
Some found their graves where first they 

stood ; 
While some with harder struggle died, 
And still fought on by Hafed's side, 
Who, fronting to the foe, trod back 
Toward the high towers his gory track; 
And, as a lion, swept away 

By sudden swell of Jordan's pride 
From the wild covert where he lay, 1 

Long battles with the o'erwhelming tide, 
So fought he back with fierce delay, 
And kept both foes and fate at bay ! 

But whither now? their track is lost, 
Their prey escaped — guide, torches gone — 
By torrent-beds and labyrinths cross'd, 

The scatter'd crowd rush blindly on — 
" Curse on those tardy lights that wind," 
They panting cry, "so far behind — 
Oh for a bloodhound's precious scent, 
To track the way the Gheber went !" 
Vain wish — confusedly along 
They rush, more desperate as more wrong : 
Till, wilder'd by the far-off lights, 
Yet glittering up those gloomy heights, 
Their footing, mazed and lost, they miss, 
And down the darkling precipice 
Are dash'd into the deep abyss ; — 
Or midway hang, impaled on rocks, 
A banquet, yet alive, for flocks 
Of ravening vultures, — while the dell 
Re-,echoes with each horrible yelL 



Those sounds — the last, to vengeance dear, 
That e'er shall ring in Hafed's ear, — 
Now reach'd him, as aloft, alone, 
Upon the steep way breathless thrown, 
He lay beside his reeking blade, 

Resign'd, as if life's task were o'er, 
Its last blood-offering amply paid, 

And Iran's self could claim no more. 
One only thought, one lingering beam 
Now broke across his dizzy dream 



1 "Id this thicket, upon the banks of the Jordan, wild 
beasts are wont to har">or. whose being washed out of the 
covert by the overfl-wings of the river gave occasion to that 
illusion of Jeremiah., ' He shall come up like a lion from IKe 
twtlliig of Jordan.' '—Maundrell's Aleppo 



Of pain and weariness — 'twas she 

His heart's pure planet, shining yet 
Above the waste of memory, 
When all life's other lights were set. 
And never to his mind before 
Her image such enchantment wore. 
It seem'd as if each thought that stain'd, 

Each fear that chill'd their loves was past, 
And not one cloud of earth remain'd 

Between him and her glory cast; — 
As if to charms, before so bright, 

New grace from other worlds was given, 
And his soul saw her by the light 

Now breaking o'er itself from heaven ! 
A voice spoke near him — 'twas the tone 
Of a loved friend, the only one 
Of all his warriors left with life 
From that short night's tremendous strife — 
" And must we then, my Chief, die here? 

Foes round us, and the shrine so near !" 
These words have roused the last remains 

Of life within him — " What ! not yet 
Beyond the reach of Moslem chains !" 

The thought could make even Death forget 
His icy bondage — with a bound 
He springs, all bleeding, from the ground, 
And grasps his comrade's arm, now grown 
Even feebler, heavier than his own, 
And up the painful pathway leads, 
Death gaining on each step he treads. 
Speed them, thou God, who heardst their 

vow ! 
They mount — they bleed — oh save them 

now — 
The crags are red they've clamber'tl o'er, 
The rock-weed's dripping with their gore — 
Thy blade too, Hated, false at length, 
Now breaks beneath thy tottering strength — ■ 
Haste, haste — the voices, of the foe 
Come near and nearer from below — 
One effort more — thank Heaven ! 'tis past, 
They've gain'd the topmost steep at last. 
And now they touch the temple's walls, 

Now Hafed sees the Fire divine — 
When lo ! — his weak, worn comrade falh» 

Dead on the threshold of the shrine. 
"Alas, brave soul, too quickly fled ! 

And must I leave thee withering here, 
The sport of every ruflian : s tread, 

The mark for every coward's spear ? 
No, by yon altar's sacred beams !" 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



143 



He cries, arid, with a strength that seems 
Not of this world, uplifts the frame 
Of the fallen chief, and toward the flame 
Bears him along ; — with death-damp hand 

The corpse upon the pyre he lays, 
fhen lights the consecrated brand, 

And fires the pile, whose sudden blaze 
Like lightning bursts o'er Oman's Sea. — 
" Now, Freedom's God ! I come to Thee," 
The youth exclaims, and with a smile 
Of triumph vaulting on the pile, 
In that last effort, ere the fires 
Have harm'd one glorious limb, expires ! 

What shriek was that on Oman's tide ? 

It came from yonder drifting bark, 
That just has caught upon her side 

The death-light — and again is dark. 
It is the boat — ah, why delay'd ? — 
That bears the wretched Moslem maid ; 
Confided to the watchful care 

Of a small veteran band, with whom 
Their generous Chieftain would not share 

The secret of his final doom ; 
But hoped when Hinda, safe and free, 

Was render'd to her father's eyes, 
Their pardon, full and prompt, would be 

The ransom of so dear a prize. — 
Unconscious, thus, of Hafed's fate, 
And proud to guard their beauteous freight, 
Scarce had they clear'd the surfy waves 
That foam around those frightful caves, 
When the curst war-whoops, known so well, 
Came echoing from the distant dell. 
Sudden each oar, upheld and still," 

Hung dripping o'er the vessel's side, 
And, driving at the current's will, 

They rock'd along the whispering tide. 
While every eye, in mute dismay, 

Was toward that fatal mountain turn'd, 
Where the dim altar's quivering ray 

As yet all lone and tranquil burn'd. 

Oh ! 'tis not, Hinda, in the power 

Of fancy's most terrific touch 
To paint thy pangs in that dread hour — 

Thy silent agony — 'twas such 
As those who feel could paint too well, 
But none e'er felt and lived to tell ! 
'Twas not alone the dreary state 
Ol a lorn spirit, crush'd by late, 



When, though no more remains to dread, 

The panic chill will not depart ; — 
When, though the inmate Hope be dead, 

Her ghost still haunts the mouldering heart 
No — pleasures, hopes, affections gone, 
The wretch may bear, and yet live on, 
Like things within the cold rock found 
Alive when all's congeal'd around. 
But there's a blank repose in this, 
A calm stagnation that were bliss 
To the keen, burning, harrowing pain 
Now felt through all thy breast and brain- 
That spasm of terror, mute, intense, 
That breathless, agonized suspense, 
From whose hot throb, whose deadly aching 
The heart had no relief but breaking ! 

Calm is the wave — heaven's brilliant lights, 

Reflected, dance beneath the prow ; — 
►Time was when, on such lovely nights, 

She, who is there so desolate now, 
Could sit all-cheerful, though alone, 

And ask no happier joy than seeing 
That star-light o'er the waters thrown — 

No joy but that to make her blest, 
And the fresh, buoyant sense of Being 

That bounds in youth's yet carelesi 
breast, — 
Itself a star, not borrowing light, 
But in its own glad essence bright. 
How different now ! — but, hark, again 
The yell of havoc rings — brave men I 
In vain, with beating hearts, ye stand 
On the bark's edge — in vain each hand 
Half draws the falchion from its sheath ; 

All's o'er — in rust your blades may lie ;— 
He, at whose word they've scatter'd death, 

Even now, this night, himself must die ! 
Well may ye look to yon dim tower, 

And ask, and wondering guess what means 
The battle-cry at this dead hour — 

Ah ! she could tell you — she, who leana 
Unheeded there, pale, sunk, aghast, 
With brow against the dew-cold mast — 

Too well she knows — her more than life, 
Her soul's first idol, and its last, 

Lies bleeding in that murderous strife. 



But see — what moves upon the height! 
Some signal ! — 'tis a torch's light. 
What bodes its solitary glare ? 



Ui 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



In gasping silence toward the shrine 
All eyes are turn'd — thine, Hinda, thine 

Fix their last failing life-beams there. 
Twas but a moment — fierce and high 
The death-pile blazed into the sky, 
And far away o'er rock and flood 

Its melancholy radiance sent ; 
While Hafed, like a vision, stood 
Reveal'd before the burning pyre, 
Tall, shadowy, like a Spirit of Fire 

Shrined in its own grand element ! 
" 'Tis he !" — the shuddering maid exclaims,- 

But while she speaks, he's seen no more; 
High burst in air the funeral flames, 

And Iran's hopes and hers are o'er ! 

One wild, heart-broken shriek she gave — 
Then sprung, as if to reach that blaze, 
Where still she fix'd her dying gaze, 
And, gazing, sunk into the wave, — 
Deep, deep, — where never care or pain 
Shall reach her innocent heart aorain ! 



Farewell — farewell to thee, Araby's daugh- 
ter ! 

(Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea ;) 
No pearl ever lay under Oman's green water 

More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee. 

Oh 1 fair as the sea-flower close to thee grow- 
ing, 
How light was thy heart till love's witch- 
ery came, 
Like the wind of the south 1 o'er a summer 
lute blowing, 
And hush'd all its music and wither'd its 
frame ! 

But long, upon Araby's green sunny high- 
lands, 
Shall maids and their lovers remember the 
doom 
Of her, who lies sleeping among the Pearl 
Islands, 
With naught but the sea-star' to light up 
her tomb. 



• " This wind (the Samoor) eo softens the strings of lutes, 
that they can never be tuned while it lasts." 

• "The star-fish. It is circular, and at night very 
resembling the fall moon surrounded by rays." 



And still, when the merry date-season is burn- 
ing, 
And calls to the palm-groves the young 
and the old, 
The happiest there, from their pastime return- 
ing 
At sunset, will weep when thy story is told. 

The young village maid, when with flowers, 
she dresses 
Her dark-flowing hair for some festival 
day, 
Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her 
tresses, 
She mournfully turns from the mirror 
away. 

ISTor shall Iran, beloved of her hero ! forget 
thee, — 
Though tyrants watch over her tears as 
they start, 
Close, close by the side of that hero she'll set 
thee, 
Embalm'd in the innermost shrine of her 
heart. 

Farewell ! — be it ours to embellish thy pillow 

With everything beauteous that grows in 

the deep ; 

Each flower of the rock and each gem of the 

billow 

Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy 



Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber 

That ever the son-owing sea-bird has wept ; 

With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreathed 

chamber, 

We, Peris of ocean, by moonlight have 

slept. 

We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie 
darkling, 
And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head ; 
We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian 4 
are sparkling, 
And gather their gold to strew over thy 
bed. 



> " Some naturalists have imagined that amber is a concre- 
tion of the tears of birds." 

< " The bay Kieselarke, which .s otherwise called the Gold- 
en Bay, the sand whereof shines as fire." 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Farewell ! — farewell ! — until pity's sweet 
fountain 
Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the 
brave, 
They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on 
that mountain, 
They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in 
the wave. 



The singular placidity with which Fadla- 
deen had listened, during the latter part of 
this obnoxious story, surprised the Princess 
and Feramorz exceedingly; and even in- 
clined toward him the hearts of these unsus- 
picious young persons, who little knew the 
source of a comp'acency so marvellous. The 
truth was he had been organizing for the last 
few days a r\iOst notable plan of persecution 
against the poet, in consequence of some 
passage, that had fallen from him on the 
second evening of reeital, — which appeared 
to this worthy Chamberlain to contain lan- 
guage and principles for which nothing short 
of the summary criticism of the chabuk 1 
would be advisable. It was his intention, 
therefore, immediately on their arrival at 
Cashmere, to give information to the King 
of Bucharia of the very dangerous senti- 
ments of his minstrel : and if, unfortunately, 
that monarch did not act with suitable vigor 
on the occasion, (that is, if he did not give 
the chabuk to Feramorz, and a place to Fad- 
ladeen,) there would be an end, he feared, of 
all legitimate government in Bucharia. He 
could not help, however, auguring better 
both for himself and the cause of potentates 
in general ; and it was the pleasure arising 
from these mingled anticipations that diffused 
6uch ununual satisfaction through his fea- 
tures, and made his eyes shine out, like pop- 
pies of the desert, over the wide and lifeless 
wilderness of that countenance. 

Having decided upon the Poet's chastise- 
ment in this manner, he thought it but 
humanity to spare him the minor tortures 
of criticism. Accordingly, when they as- 
sembled next evening in the pavilion, and 
Lalla Rookh expected to see all the beauties 



of her bard melt away, one b) 7 one, in the 
acidity of criticism, like pearls in the <;up oi 
the Egyptian Queen, — he agreeably disap- 
pointed her by merely saying, with an iron- 
ical smile, that the merits of such a poem 
deserved to be tried at a much higher tribu 
nal ; and then suddenly passing off into a 
panegyric upon all Mussulman sovereigns, 
more particularly his august and Imperial 
master Aurungzebe, — the wisest and best of 
the descendants of Timur, — who, among 
other great things he had done for mankind, 
had given to him, Fadladeen, the very profit- 
able posts of Betel-carrier and Taster of 
Sherbets to the Emperor, Chief Holder of 
the Girdle of Beautiful Forms, 3 and Grand. 
Nazir, or Chamberlain of the Haram. 

They were now not far from that forbidden* 
river, 3 beyond which no pure Hindoo can 
pass ; and were reposing for a time in the 
rich valley of Hussun Abdual, which had 
always been a favorite resting-place of the 
Emperors in their annual migrations to 
Cashmere. Here often had the Light of the 
Faith, J.ehan-Guire, wandered with his be- 
loved and beautiful Nourmahal ; and here 
would Lalla Rookh have been happy to re« 
mai-n forever, giving up the throne of Bucha- 
ria and the world for Feramorz and love in 
this sweet lonely valley. The time was now 
fast approaching when she must see him no 
longer, — or see him with eyes whose every 
look belonged to another ; and there was a 
melancholy preciousness in these last mo- 
ments, which made her heart cling to them 
as it would to life. During the latter part 
of his journey, indeed, she had sunk into a 
deep sadness, from which nothing but the 
presence of the young minstrel could awake 
her. Like those lamps in tombs, which only 
light up when the air is admitted, it was 
only at his approach that her eyes became 
smiling and animated. But here, in this 
dear valley, every moment was an age of 



' The »pplic»tion of whips or rods.' 



2 His business was, at stated periods, to measure the ladies 
of the Haram by a sort of regulation-girdle, whose limits it 
was not thought graceful to exceed. H any of them outgrew 
this standard of shape, they were reduced by abstinence till 
they came within its bounds. 

> The Attock. 
■ '1 Akbar on his way ordered a fort to be built upon the 
Nilab, which he called Attock, which means in the Indian, 
language Forbidden ; for. by the superstition of the Hindoo* 
it was held unlawful to cross that river ' oio's Hindortan. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



pleasure; she saw him all day, and was, 
therefore, all day happy, — resembling, she 
»ften thought, that people of Zinge, 1 who 
attribute the unfading cheerfulness they 
enjoy to one genial star that rises nightly 
over their heads. * 

The whole party, indeed, seemed in their 
liveliest mood during the few days they 
passed in this delightful solitude. The 
young attendants of the Princess, who were 
here allowed a freer range than they could 
6afely be indulged with in a less sequestered 
place, ran wild among the gardens and 
bounded through the meadows, lightly as 
young roes over the romantic plains of 
Tibet. While Fadladeen, besides the spirit- 
ual comfort he derived from a pilgrimage to 
the tomb of the saint from whom the valley . 
is named, had opportunities of gratifying, in 
3. small way, his taste for victims, by putting 
to death some hundreds of those unfortunate 
little lizards,' which all pious Mussulmans 
make it a point to kill ; — taking for granted, 
that the manner in which the creature hangs 
its head is meant as a mimicry of the attitude 
in which the Faithful say their prayers ! 

About two miles from Hussun Abdual 
were those Royal Gardens, which had grown 
beautiful under the care of so many lovely 
eyes, and were beautiful still, though those 
eyes could see them no longer. This place, 
with its flowers and its holy silence, inter- 
rupted only by the dipping of the wings of 
birds in its marble basins filled with the pure 
water of those hills, was to Lalla Rookh all 
that her heart could fancy of fragrance, cool- 
ness, and almost heavenly tranquillity. As 
the Prophet said of Damascus, "It was too 
delicious ;"* — and here, in listening to the 



'•' Tlie Inhabitants of this country 'Zinge) are never affected 
with siSlness or melancholy: on this subject the Sheikh Abn- 
el-Kheir-Azhari has the following distich :— 

" • Who is the man without care or sorrow (tell), that I may 
rub my hand to him. 

" ' (Behold) the Zingians, without care or sorrow, frolick- 
eome » lit tipsiness and mirth.' " 

•' The philosophers have discovered that the cauBe of this 
cheerfulness proceeds from the influence of the Star Soheil or 
Oanopus, which rises over them every night."— Heft Aklim, or 
the Seven Climates, translated by W. Outlet/, Esq. 

» The star Soheil or Canopus. 

• "The lizard Stellio. The Arabs call it Hardun. The 
Turks kill it, for they imagine that by declining the head It 
tchnicn them when they s»y their prayers."— BastelqtHst. 

i"Ai you enter at that Bazar without the gate at DuaM- 



sweet voice of Feramorz, or reading in his 
eyes what yet he never dared to tell her, the 
most exquisite moments of her whole life 
were passed. One evening when they had 
been talking of the Sultana Nourmahal, — the 
Light of the Haram,' — who had so often wan- 
dered among these flowers, and fed with her 
own hands, in those marble basins, the small 
shining fishes of which she was so fond, — 
the youth, in order to delay the moment of 
separation, proposed to recite a short 8tory, 
or rather rhapsody, of which this adored 
Sultana was the heroine. It related, he said, 
to the reconcilement of a sort of lovers' 
quarrel, which took place between her and 
the Emperor during a Feast of Roses at 
Cashmere ; and would remind the Princess 
of that difference between Haroun-al-Raschid 
and his fair mistress Marida, which was so 
happily made up by the sweet strains of the 
musician Moussali." As the story was 
chiefly to be told in song, and Feramorz 
had unluckily forgotten his own lute in the 
valley, he borrowed the vina of Lalla 
Rookh's little Persian slave, and thu* 
began : — 

THE LIGHT OF THE HARAM. 

Who has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere, 

With its roses the brightest that earth 

ever gave, 1 

Its temples, and grottos, and fountains as clear 

As the love-lighted eyes that hang over 

their wave ? 



cub, you see the Green Mosque, so called became it hath a 
steeple, faced with green glazed bricks, which render it very 
resplendent ; it is •?o»»r»d at the top with a pavilion of the 
same stuff. The Turks say tnis Mosque was made in that 
place because Mohammed, being come bo far, would not enter 
the town, eaying it was too delicious." — TJievenot. 

» Nourmahal signifies Light of the Haram. She was after- 
ward called Nourjehan, or the Light of the World. 

• " Haroun Al Raschid. cinquieme Khalife des Abassides, 
s'fitant un jour brouille avec Maridah, qu'il aimoit cependant 
jusqu'a l'exces, et cette mesintelligence ayant deja dors' 
qnelque temps commenca a s'ennnyer. Giafar Barmaki, sou 
favori, qui s'en appercut, commanda a Abbas ben Ahnaf, 
excellent poete de ce temps-la, de composer quelqnes vers ear 
le snjet de cette brouillerie. Ce poete execnta l'ordre de 
Giafar, qui fit chanter ces vers par Monssali en presence da 
Khalife, et ce Prince fut tenement touchg de la tendresee dee 
vers du poete et de la douceur de la voix du musicien, qu'il 
alia ansBitOt trouver Maridah, et fit sa paix avec elle."- 
D'Berbelot. 

» " The rose of Caehmere, for its brilliancy and delicacy of 
odor, haa long been proverbial in the Eait. " 






POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE 



Oh ! to see it at sunset, — when warm o'er* 

the lake 
Its splendor at parting a summer eve 

throws, 
Like a bride, full of blushes, when lingering 

to take 
A last look of her mirror at night ere she 

goes ! — 
When the shrines through the foliage are 

gleaming half shown, 
And each hallows the hour by some rites of 

its own. 
Here the music of prayer from a minaret 



Here the Magian his urn full of perfume 

is swinging, 
And here, at the altar, a zone of sweet bells 
Round the waist of some fair Indian 

dancer is ringing. 
Or to see it by moonlight, — when mellowly 

shines 
The light o'er its palaces, gardens, and 

shrines ; 
When the waterfalls gleam like a quick fall 

of stars, 
And the nightingale's hymn from the Isle 

of Chenars 
Is broken by laughs and light echoes of 

feet 
From the cool shining walks where the 

young people meet. 
Or at morn, when the magic of daylight 

awakes 
A new wonder each minute as slowly it 

breaks, 
Hills, cupolas, fountains, called forth every 

one 
Out of darkness, as they were just born of 

the sun. 
When the spirit of fragrance is up with the 

day, 
From his Haram of night-flowers stealing 

away; 
And the wind, full of wantonness, woos like 

a lover 
The young aspen trees till they tremble all 

over. 
When the East is as warm aa the light of 

first hopes, 
And day with its banner of radiance un- 

furl'd. 



Shines in through the mountainous portal" 
that opes, 
Sublime, from that valley of bliss to tin 
world ! 

But never yet, by night or day, 
In dew of spring or summer's ray, 
Did the sweet valley shine so gay 
As now it shines — all love and light, 
Visions by day and feasts by night ! 
A happier smile illumes each brow, 

With quicker spread each heart uncloses, 
And all is ecstasy, — for now 

The valley holds its Feast of Roses.' 
That joyous time, when pleasures pour 
Profusely round, and in their shower 
Hearts open, like the season's rose, — 

The floweret of a hundred leaves, 
Expanding while the dew-fall flows, 

And every leaf its balm receives. 
'Twas when the hour of evening came 

Upon the lake, serene and cool, 
When day had hid his sultry flame 

Behind the palms of Baramoule. 
When maids began to lift their heads, 
Refresh'd from their embroider'd beds, 
Where they had slept the sun away, 
And waked to moonlight and to play. 
All were abroad — the busiest hive 
On BelaV hills is less alive 
When saffron beds are full in flower, 
Than look'd the valley in that hour. 
A thousand restless torches play'd 
Through every grove and island shade J 
A thousand sparkling lamps were set 
On every dome and minaret ; 
And fields and pathways, far and near, 
Were lighted by a blaze so clear, 
That you could see, in wandering round, 
The smallest rose-leaf on the ground. 
Yet did the maids and matrons leave 
Their veils at home that brilliant eve ; 
And there were glancing eyes about, 
And cheeks that would not dare shine out 
In open day, but thought they might 



i " The Tuckt Suliman, the name bestowed by the Moham- 
medans on this hill, forms one side of a grand portal to to* 
lake." 

* " The Feast of Roses continues the whole time of their 



» Mentioned in the Toozek Jekangeery, or 'Memoirs »f 
Jehan-Gnire," where there is an ascoont of the beds ofiaaW— 
flowers about Cashmere. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Look lovely then, because 'twas night ! 
And all were free, and wandering, 

And all exclaim'd to all they met 
That never did the summer bring 

So gay a Feast of Roses yet ; — 
The moon had never shed a light 

So clear as that which bless'd them there ; 
The roses ne'er shone half so bright, 

Nor they themselves look'd half so fair. 

And what a wilderness of flowers ! 
It seem'd as though from all the bowers 
And fairest fields of all the year, 
The mingled spoil were scatter'd here. 
The lake, too, like a garden breathes, 

With the rich buds that o'er it lie, — 
As if a shower of fairy wreathes 

Had fallen upon it from the sky ! 
And then the sounds of joy, — the beat 
Of tabors and of dancing feet ; — 
The minaret-crier's chant of glee 
Sung from his lighted gallery, 1 
And answer'd by a ziraleet 
From neighboring Haram, wild and sweet ; — 
The merry laughter, echoing 
From gardens where the silken swing' 
Wafts some delighted girl above 
The top leaves of the orange grove ; 
Or, from those infant groups at play 
Among the tents that line the way, 
Flinging, unawed by slave or mother, 
Handfuls of roses at each other ! 

And the sounds from the lake, — the low 
whisp'ring in boats, 
As they shoot through the moonlight ; — 
the dipping of oars, 
And the wild, airy warbling that everywhere 
floats, 
Through the groves, round the islands, as 
if all the shores 
Like those of Kathay utter'd music, and gave 



' " It is the custom among the women to employ the Maa- 
zeen to chant from the gallery of the nearest minaret, which 
on that occasion is illuminated, and the women assembled at 
the house reBpond at intervals with a ziraleet or joyous 

2 " The swing is a favorite pastime in the East, as promot- 
ing a circulation of air, extremely refreshing in those sultry 
climates."— Richardson. 

* The swings are adorned with festoons. This, pastime is 
accompanied Tvith music of voice's and of instruments, hired 
by the masters of the swings." ~ 



An answer in song to the kiss of each wave !* 
But the gentlest of all are those sounds, full 

of feeling, 
That soft from the lute of some lover are 

stealing, — 
Some lover who knows all the heart-touch- 
ing power 
Of a lute and a sigh in this magical hour. 
Oh ! best of delights, as it everywhere is, 
To be near the loved one, — what a rapture 

is his, 
Who in moonlight and music thus sweetly 

may glide 
O'er the Lake of Cashmere with that one by 

his side ! 
If woman can make the worst wilderness dear, 
Think, think what a heaven she must make 

of Cashmere ! 

So felt the magnificent Son of Acbar,' 
When from power and pomp and the trophies 

of war 
He flew to that valley, forgetting them all 
With the Light of the Haram, his young 

Nourmahal. 
When free and uncrown'd as the conqueror 

roved 
By the banks of that lake, with his only be- 
loved, 
He saw, in the wreaths she would playfully 

snatch 
From the hedges, a glory his crown could 

not match, 
And preferr'd in his heart the least ringlet 

that curl'd 
Down her exquisite neck to the throne of the 

world ! 

There's a beauty, forever unchangingly 
bright, 

Like the long sunny lapse of a summer- 
day's light, 

Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made 
tender, 

Till love falls asleep in its sameness of splen- 
dor. ' "■>. : 



» "The ancients, having remarked that a current of water 
made some of ihe stones near its banks send forth a sound, 
they detached some of them, and being charmed With the de» 
lightfnl sound'thcy emit^ef , constructed, King or nrasical > 
struments" of them.''' 

• Jehan-Guire, the son of the Great Acbar.. • • 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



This was not the beauty — oh ! nothing like 

this, 
That to young Nourmahal gave such magic 

of bliss, 
But that loveliness, ever in motion, which 

plays 
Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy 

days, 
Now here and now there, giving warmth as 

it flies 
From the lips to the cheek, from the cheek 

to the eyes, 
Now melting in mist and now breaking in 

gleams, 
Like the glimpses a saint has of heaven in 

his dreams ! 
When pensive, it seem'd as if that very grace, 
That charm of all others, was born with her 

face; 
And when angry — for even in the tranquil- 

lest climes 
Light breezes will ruffle the flowers some- 
times — 
The short, passing anger but seem'd to 

awaken 
New beauty, like flowers that are sweetest 

when shaken. 
If tenderness touch'd her, the dark of her eye 
At once took a darker, a heavenlier dye, 
From the depth of whose shadow, like holy 

revealings 
From innermost shrines, came the light of 

her feelings ! 
Then her mirth — oh ! 'twas sportive as ever 

took wing 
From the heart with a burst like the wild- 
bird in spring ; — 
Illumed by a wit that would fascinate sages, 
Yet playful as Peris just loosed from their 

cages.' 
While her laugh, full of life, without any 

control 
But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from 

her soul ; 
And where it most sparkled no glance could 

discover, 
In lip, cheek, or eyes, for she brighten'd all 



Like any fair lake that the breeze is upon, 
When it breaks into dimples, and laughs in 

the sun. 
Such, such were the peerless enchantments, 

that gave 
Nourmahal the proud Lord of the East for 

her slave ; 
And though bright was his Haram, — a living 

parterre 
Of the flowers' of this planet — though treas- 
ures were there, 
For which Solomon's self might have given 

all the store 
That the navy from Ophir e'er wing'd to his 

shore, 
Yet dim before her were the smiles of them 

all, 
And the Light of 1 is Haram was young 

Nourmahal ! 

But where is she now, this night of joy, 
When bliss is every heart's employ? — 

When all around her is so bright, 
So like the visions of a trance, 
That one might think, who came by chance 

Into the vale this happy night, 

He saw that City of Delight' 
In Fairy-land, whose streets and towers 
Are made of gems and light and flowers ! — 
Where is the loved Sultana ? where, 
When mirth brings out the young and fair, 
Does she, the fairest, hide her brow, 
In melancholy stillness now ? 

Alas — how light a cause may move 
Dissension between hearts that love ! 
Hearts that the world in vain has tried, 
And sorrow but more closely tied ; 
That stood the storm when waves were rough, 
Yet in a sunny hour fall off, 
Like ships that have gone down at sea, 
When heaven was all tranquillity : 
| A something light as air — a look, 

A word unkind or wrongly taken — 
Oh ! love that tempests never shook, 

A breath, a touch like this has shaken. 
And ruder words will soon rush in 
To spread the breach that words begin; 



1 In the ware of the Dives with the Peris, whenever the 
former took the latter prisoners, " they shut them up in iron 
»i:es, and hung them on the highest trees." 



In the Malay language the e 
The capital of Shadukiam. 



r word b fenifies \ 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOOllE. 



And eyes forget the gentle ray 
They wore in courtship's smiling day; 
And voices lose the tone that shed 
A tenderness round all they said ; 
Till fast declining, one by one, 
The sweetnesses of love are gone, 
And hearts, so lately mingled, seem 
Like broken clouds, — or like the stream, 
That smiling left the mountain's brow, 

As though its waters ne'er could sever, 
Yet, ere it reach the plain below, 

Breaks into floods that part forever 

Oh, you that have the charge of love, 

Keep him in rosy bondage bound, 
As in the fields of bliss above 

He sits, with flowerets fetter'd round ; — 
Loose not a tie that round him clings, 
Nor ever let him use his wings ; 
For even an hour, a minute's flight, 
Will rob the plumes of half their light. 
Like that celestial bird — whose nest 

Is found beneath far Eastern skies — 
Whose wings, though radiant when at rest, 

Lose all their gWy when he flies !' 

Some difference, of this dangerous kind, — 
By which, though light, the links that bind 
The fondest hearts may soon be riven ; 
Some shadow in love's summer heaven, 
Which, though a fleecy speck at first, 
May yet in awful thunder burst ;— 
Such cloud it is that now hangs over 
The heart of the imperial lover, 
And far hath banish'd from his sight 
His Nourinahal, his Haram's light ! 
Hence is it, on this happy night, 
When pleasure through the fields and groves 
Has let loose all her world of loves, 
And every heart has found its own, — 
He wanders, joyless and alone, 
And weary as that bird of Thrace, 
Whose pinion knows no resting-place. 
In vain the loveliest cheeks and eyes 
This Eden of the earth supplies 

Come crowding round — the cheeks are 
pale, 
The eyes are dim : though rich the spot 



With every flower this earth hath got, 

What is it to the nightingale 
If there bis darling rose is not T 
In vain the valley's smiling throng 
Worship him, as he moves along ; 
He heeds them not — one smile of hers 
Is worth a world of worshippers. 
They but the star's adorers are, 
She is the heaven that lights the star ! 
Hence is it too that Nourmahal, 

Amid the luxuries of this hour, 
Far from the joyous festival, 

Sits in her own sequester'd bower, 
With no one near to soothe or aid, 
But that inspired and wondrous maid, 
Namouna, the enchantress ; — one 
O'er whom his race the golden sun 
For unremember'd years has run, 
Yet never saw her blooming brow 
Younger or fairer than 'tis now. 
Nay, rather, as the west-wind's sigh 
Freshens the flower it passes by, 
Time's wing but seeni'd, in stealing o'er 
To leave her lovelier than before. 
Yet on her smiles a sadness hung, 
And when, as oft, she spoke or sung 
Of other worlds, there came a light 
From her dark eyes so strangely bright, 
That all believed nor man nor earth 
Were conscious of Namouna's birth ! 

All spells, and talismans she knew, 

From the great Mantra," which around 
The air's sublimer spirits drew, 

To the gold gems* of Afric, bound 
Upon the wandering Arab's arm, 
To keep him from the SiltimV harm. 
And she had pledged her powerful art, 
Pledged it with all the zeal and heart 
Of one who knew, though high her sphere, 
What 'twas to lose a love so dear, 
To find some spell that should recall 
Her SelimV smile to Nourmahal ! 



> " Among the birds of Tonqnin is it species of goldfinch 
which sings so melodiously that it is called the Celestial Bird. 
Iti wings, when it is perched, appear variegated with beauti- 
lul colore, but when it flies they lose all their splendor." 



' " Ton may place a hundred handfnls of fragrant herbs and 
flowers before the nightingale, yet he wishes not, in his con- 
stant heart, for more than the sweet breath of his beloved 
rose."— Jami. 

» " He is said to have found the great Mantra spell or talis- 
man, through which he ruled over the elements and spirits of 
all denominations." 

* •' The gold jewels of Jinnie, which are called by the Arab* 
' El Herrez,' from the supposed charm ihey contain." 

* "A demon supposed to haunt woods, &c, in a humus 
shape." 

* The name of Jehan-Gnire before his accession to '. he thron* 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



'Twas midnight — through the lattice, 
wreathed 
With woodbine, many a perfume breathed 
From plants that wake when others sleep, 
From timid jasmine buds that keep 
Their odor to themselves all day, 
But, when the sunlight dies away, 
Let the delicious secret out 
To every breeze that roams about ; — 
When thus Naniouna : — " 'Tis the horn- 
That scatters spells on herb and flower ; 
And garlands might be gather'd now, 
That, twined around the sleeper's brow, 
Would make him dream of such delights, 
Such miracles and dazzling sights 
As genii of the sun behold, 
At evening, from their tents of gold 
Upon the horizon — where they play 
Till twilight comes, and, ray by ray, 
Their sunny mansions melt away ! 
Now, too, a chaplet might be wreathed 
Of buds o'er which the moon has breathed, 
Which, worn by her whose love has stray'd, 

Mignt bring some Peri from the skies, 
Some sprite, whose very soul is made 

Of flowerets' breaths and lovers' sighs, 
And who might tell " 

" For me, for me," 
Cried Nourmahal impatiently, — 
" Oh ! twine that wreath for me to-night." 
Then, rapidly, with foot as light 
As the young musk-roes, out she flew 
To cull each shining leaf that grew 
Beneath the moonlight's hallowing beams 
For this enchanted wreath of dreams. 
Anemones and seas of gold,' 

And new-blown lilies of the river, 
And those sweet flowerets that unfold 

Their buds on Camadeva's quiver ;' — 
The tube-rose, with her silvery light, 

That in the gardens of Malay 
Is call'd the Mistress of the Night,' 
So like a bride, scented and bright, 

She comes out when the sun's away. — 
Amaranths, such as crown the maids 



"Hemasagara, or the Sea of Gold, with flowers of the 
brightest gold color " 

* " The delicious oaor of the blossoms of this tree justly 
tives it a place in tne auiver of Camadeva, or the God of Love." 

• " The Malayans style the tube-rose (Folianthe* tuberosa) 
Sandal Malam.' or th<; Mistress of the Night." 



That wander through Zamara's shades ;' 
And the white moon-flower, as it shows 
On Serendib's high crags to those 
Who near the isle at evening sail, 
Scenting her clove-trees in the gale ; — 
In short, all flowerets and all plants, 

From the divine Amrita tree, 1 
That blesses heaven's inhabitants 

With fruits of immortality, 
Down to the basil* tuft, that waves 
Its fragrant blossom over graves,' 

And to the humble rosemary, 
Whose sweets so thanklessly are shed 
To scent the desert' and the dead, — 
All in that garden bloom, and all 
Are gather'd by young Nouwnahal, 
Who heaps her baskets with the flowers 

And leaves, till they can hold no more ; 
Then to Namouna flies, and showers 

Upon her lap the shining store. 

With what delight the enchantress views 

So many buds, bathed with the dews 

And beams of that bless'd Hour ! — tier gianc* 

Spoke something past all mortal pleasures, 
As, in a kind of holy trance, 

She hung above those fragrant treasures. 
Bending to drink their balmy airs, 
As if she mix'd her soul with theirs. 
And 'twas, indeed, the perfume shed 
From flowers and scented flame that fed 
Her charmed life — for none had e % er 
Beheld her iaste of mortal fare, 
Nor ever in aught earthly dip, 
But the morn's dew, her roseate lip. 
Fill'd with the cool inspiring smell, 
The enchantress now begins her spell, 
Thus singing as she winds and weaves 
In mystic form the glittering leaves : — 



* " In Zamara (Sumatra) they lead an idle life, pasBing the 
day in playing on a kind of flute, crowned with garlands of 
flowers, among which the globe amaranthus mostly prevails." 

6 " The largest and richest sort (of the ' Jambu' or Rose 
Apple) is called ' Amrita, 1 or immortal, az?d the mytholosists 
of Tibet apply the same word to the celestial tree bearing am- 
brosial fruit." 

• Sweet basil, called 'Eayhan' in Persia, and generally 
found in churchyards. 

» " The women in Egypt go, at least two days in the week, 
to pray and weep at the sepulchres of the dead ; and the cus- 
tom then is to throw upon the tombs a sort of herb, which 
the Arabs call rifian, and which is onr sweet basil."— MaUitt, 
Lett. 10. 

■ " In the Great Desert are found many stalks of lavendw 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



' I know where the winged visions dwell 

That around the night-bed play ; 
I know each herb and floweret's bell, 
Where they hide their wings by day. 
Then hasten we, maid, 
To twine our braid, 
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. 

" The image of love that nightly flies 

To visit the bashful maid, 
Steals from the jasmine flower, that sighs 

Its soul, like her, in the shade. 
The hope, in dreams, of a happier hour 

That alights on misery's brow, 
Springs out of the silvery almond-flower, 

That blooms on a leafless bough. 1 
Then hasten we, maid, 
To twine our braid, 
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. 

" The visions that oft to worldly eyes 

The glitter of mines unfold, 
Inhabit the mountain-herb," that dyes 

The tooth of the fawn like gold.' 
The phantom shapes — oh, touch not them — 

That appal the murderer's sight, 
Lurk in the fleshly mandrake's stem, 

That shrieks when torn at night ! 
Then hasten we, maid, 
To twine our braid, 
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade. 

"The dream of the injured, patient mind, 

That smiles at the wrongs of men, 
Is found in the bruised and wounded rind 
Of the cinnamon, sweetest then ! 
Then hasten we, maid, 
To twine our braid, 
To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade." 



1 "The almond-tree, with writs flowers, blossoms on the 
hare branches." 

' An herb on Mount Libanus, which is said to communicate 
ft yeliow golden hue to the teeth of the goats and other ani- 
mals that graze upon it. 

3 Niebuhr thinks this may be the herb which the Eastern 
alchyrnists look to as a means of making gold. " Most of 
those alchymical enthusiasts think themselves sure of suc- 
cess if tksy could but find out the herb which gilds the teeth 
«nd gives a yellow color to the flesh of the sheep that eat it." 

Father Jerome Dandini, however, asserts that the teeth of 
Jhe goats at Mount Libanus are of a silver color ; and adds, 
•* this confirms me that which I observed in Candia; to wit, 
that the animals that live on Mount Ida eat a certain herb, 
vhich renders their teeth of a golden color; which, according 
to my judgment, cannot otherwise proceed than from the 



No sooner was the flowery crown 

Placed on her head than sleep came down, 

Gently as nights of summer tall, 

Upon the lids of Nourmahal; — 

And suddenly a tuneful breeze, 

As full of small, rich harmonies 

As ever wind that o'er the tents 

Of AzaV blew was full of scents, 

Steals on her ear and floats and swells, 

Like the first air of morning creeping 
Into those wreathy, Red Sea shells, 

Where Love himself, of old, lay sleeping ;'— 
And now a spirit, form'd, 'twould seem, 

Of music and of light, so fair, 
So brilliantly his features beam, 

And such a sound is in the air 
Of sweetness when he waves his wings, 
Hovers around her, and thus sings : — 

" From Chindara's' warbling fount I come, 

Call'd by that moonlight garland's spell ; 
From Chindara's fount, my fairy home, 

Where in music, morn and night, I dwell. 
Where lutes in the air are heard about, 

And voices are singing the whole day long, 
And every sigh the heart breathes out 

Is turn'd, as it leaves the lips, to song ! 
Hither I come 
From my fairy home, 

And if there's a magic in music's strain, 
I swear by the breath 
Of that moonlight wreath 

Thy lover shall sigh at thy feet again. 
For mine is the lay that lightly floats, 
And mine are the murmuring, dying notes, 
That fall as soft as snow on the sea, 
And melt in the heart as instantly ! 
And the passionate strain that, deeply going, 

Refines the bosom it trembles through, 
As the musk-wind, over the water blowing, 

Ruffles the wave, but sweetens it too ! 

"Mine is the charm whose mystic sway 
The spirits of past delight obey ; — 
Let but the tuneful talisman sound, 



mines which are under gTonnd."— Dandini, Voyage to Mount 
Libanus. 

* The myrrh country. 

s "This idea was not unknown to the Greeks, who repre- 
sent the young Nerites, one of the Cupids, as living in snella 
on the shores of the Red Sea." 

« " A fabulous fonntain, where instrument! are said to tw 
constantly playing." 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



And they come, like genii, hovering round. 
And mine is the gentle song that bears 

From soul to soul the wishes of love, 
As a bird that wafts through genial airs 

The cinnamon seed from grove to grove. * 

" 'Tis I that mingle in one sweet measure 
The past, the present, and future of pleasure ;* 
When memory links the tone that is gone 

With the blissful tone that's still in the ear ; 
And hope from a heavenly note flies on 

To a note more heavenly still that is near ! 

" The warrior's heart, when touch'd by me, 
Can as downy soft and as yielding be 
As his own white plume, that high amid death 
Through the field has shone — yet moves with 

a breath. 
And oh, how the eyes of beauty glisten 

When music has reach'd her inward soul, 
Like the silent stars that wink and listen 
While Heaven's eternal melodies roll ! 
So, hither I come 
From my fairy home, 
And if there's a magic in music's strain, 
I swear by the breath 
Of that moonlight wreath, 
Thy lover shall sigh at thy feet again." 

'Tis dawn — at least that early dawn* 
Whose glimpses are again withdrawn, 
As if the morn had waked, and then 
Sftut close her lids of light again. 



9 "Whenever oar pleasure , arises from a succession of 
Bounds, it is a perception of complicated nature, made up of s 
sensation of the present sound or note, and an idea or remem- 
brance of the foregoing, while their mixture and concurrence 
produce such a mysterious delight as neither could have pro- 
duced alone. And it is often heightened by an anticipation 
of the succeeding notes. Thus sense, memory, and imagina- 
tion are conjurctively employed."— Gerard on Taste. 

Madame de Stael accounts upon the same principle for the 
gratification we derive from r hyme :— " Bile est l'image de 
I'csperance et du souvenir. TJn son nous fait desirer celui qui 
doit lni repondre, et quand le second retentit, il nons rappelle 
celui que vient de nous echapper." 

s " The Persians have two mornings, the Soobhi Kazim and 
the Soobhi Sadig, the false and the real daybreak. They ac- 
count for this phenomenon in a most whimsical manner. 
They say that as the sun rises from behind the Kohi Qaf 
(Mount Caucasus), it passes a hole perforated through that 
mountain, and that darting its rays through it, it is the cause 
of the Soobhi Kazim, or this temporary appearance of day- 
break. As it ascends, the earth is again veiled in darkness, 
until the sun rises above the mountain and brings with it the 
Soobhi Sadig. or real morning."— Scott Waring. 



And Nourmahal is up, and trying 

The wonders of her lute, whose strings— 
Oh, bliss ! — now murmur like the sighing 

From that ambrosial spirit's wings ! 
And then, her voice — 'tis more than human — 

Never, till now, had it been given 
To lips of any mortal woman 

To utter notes so fresh from heaven ; 
Sweet as the breath of angel sighs, 

When angel sighs are most divine. — 
" Oh ! let it last till night," she cries, 
" And he is more than ever mine." 
And hourly she renews the lay, 

So fearful lest its heavenly sweetness 
Should, ere the evening, fade away, — 

For things so heavenly have such fleetness ! 
But, far from fading, it but grows 
Richer, diviner as it flows ; 
Till rapt she dwells on every string, 

And pours again each sound along, 
Like echo lost and languishing 

In love with her own wondrous song. 

That evening (trusting that his soul 

Might be from haunting love released 
By mirth, by music, and the bowl) 

The imperial Selim held a feast 
In his magnificent Shalimar ;* — 
In whose saloons, when the first star 
Of evening o'er the waters trembled, 
The valley's loveliest all assembled, • 
All the bright creatures that, like di - eams, 
Glide through its foliage, and drink beams 
Of beauty from its founts and streams. 6 
And all those wandering minstrel-maids, 
Who leave — how can they leave? — the 



Of that dear valley, and are found 
Singing in gardens of the Soutn 

Those songs that ne'er so sweetly sound 
As from a young Cashmerian's mouth. 



* " In the centre of the plain, as it approaches the Lake, one 
of the Delhi emperors, I believe Shah Jehan, constructed a 
spacious garden called the Shalimar, which is abundantly 
stored with fruit-trees and flowering shrubs. Some of the riv- 
ulets which intersect the plain are led into a canal at the hack 
of the garden, and, flowing through its centre, or occasionally 
thrown into a variety of water-works, compose the chief heau- 
ty of the Shalimar. To decorate this spot the Mogul princsa 
of India have displayed an equal magn [licence and >.«<"«: es- 
pecially Jehan Gheer, who, with the enchanting Noor ManL, 
made Kashmire his usual residence during the 



» " It is supposed that the Cashmerians are indebted tot 
their beauty to their waters.' 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 






There, too, the Haram's inmates smile ; — 

Maids from the West, with sun-bright hair, 
And from the Garden of the Nile, 

Delicate as the roses there ;' 
Daughters of love from Cyprus rocks, 
With Paphian diamonds in their locks;" 
Like Peri forms, such as there are 
On the gold meads of Candahar;' 
And they, before whose sleepy eyes, 

In their own bright Kathaian bowers, 
Sparkle such rainbow bittterflies,' 

That they might fancy the rich flowers 
That round them in the sun lay sighing 
Had been by magic all set flying ! 

Everything young, everything fair 
From East and West is blushing there, 
Except — except — O Nourmahal ! 
Thou loveliest, dearest of them all, 
The one, whose smile shone out alone, 
Amidst a world the only one ! 
Whose light, among so many lights, 
Was like that star, on starry nights, 
The seaman singles from the sky, 
To steer his bark forever by ! 
Thou wert not there — so Selim thought, 

And everything seem'd drear without thee ; 
But ah ! thou wert, thou wert — and brought 

Thy charm of song all fresh about thee. 
Mingling unnoticed with a band 
Of lutanists from many a land, 
And veil'd by such a mask as shades 
The features of young Arab maids,* — 
A mask that leaves but one eye free, 
To do its best in witchery, — 
She roved, with beating heart, around, 

And waited, trembling, for the minute 
When she might try if still the sound 

Of her loved lute had magic in it. 

The board was spread with fruits and wine, 
With grapes of gold, like those that shine 



* " The roses of the Jinan Nile, or Garden of the Nile, (at- 
tached to the Emperor of Morocco's palace,) are nneqnalled, 
and mattresses are made of their leaves for the men of rank to 
recline upon." 

3 " On the side of a mountain near Paphos there is a cavern 
which produces the most beautiful rock-crystal. On account 
of its brilliancy, it has been called the Paphian diamond.' 1 

* '■' There is a part of Candahar called Pcria, or Fairy-Land." 

4 " Butterflies, which are called, in the Chinese language, 
Flying Leaves.' " 

* " The Arabian women wear black masks with little clasps, 
prettily ordered."— Carreri. Niebuhr mentions their showing 



On Casbin's hills ; — pomegranates full 

Of melting sweetness, and the pears 
And sunniest apples that Cabul 

In all its thousand gardens bears. 
Plantains, the golden and the green, 
Malaya's nectar'd mangusteen ;" 
Prunes of Bokara, and sweet nuts 

From the far groves of Samarcand, 
And Basra dates, and apricots, 

Seed of the sun,' from Iran's land ; — 
With rich conserve of Visna cherries,' 
Of orange flowers, and of those berries 
That, wild and fresh, the young gazelles 
Feed on in Erac's rocky dells. 
All these in richest vases smile, 

In baskets of pure sandal-wood, 
And urns of porcelain from that isle* 

Sunk underneath the Indian flood, 
Whence oft the lucky diver brings 
Vases to grace the halls of kings. 
Wines too, of every clime and hue, 
Around their liquid lustre threw; 
Amber Rosolli, — the bright dew 
From vineyards of the Green Sea gushing ;" 
And Shiraz wine, that richly ran 

As if that jewel, large and rare, 
The ruby for which Kublai-Khan 
Offer'd a city's wealth," was blushing, 

Melted within the goblets there ! 

And amply Selim quaffs of each, 

And seems, resolved the floods shall reach 

His inward heart, — shedding around 

A genial deluge as they run, 
That soon shall leave no spot undrown'd, 

For Love to rest his wings upon. 
He little knew how blest the boy 

Can float upon a goblet's streams, 
Lighting them with his smile of joy; — 

As bards have seen him in their dreams 



• "The mangusteen, the most delicate fruit In the world; 
the pride of the Malay Islands." 

' "A delicious kind of apricot, called by the Persian* 
* Tokm-ek-shems,' signifying sun's seed." 

• "Sweetmeats in a crystal cup, consisting of rose-leaves in 
conserve, with lemon or Visna cherry, orange flowers," 4c. 

• " Mauri-ga-Sima, an island near Formosa, supposed to 
have b een sunk in the sea for the crimes of its inhabitants. 
The vessels which the fishermen and divers bring up from it 
are sold at an immense price in China and Japan." 

10 The white wine of Kishma. 

i> " The King of Zeilan is said to have the very finest ruby 
that was ever seen. Kublai-Khan sent and offered the vain* 
of a city for it, but the king answered he would not give it for 
the treasure of the world."— Marco Polo. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Down the blue Ganges laughing glide 

Upon a rosy lotus wreath, 1 
Catching new lustre from the tide 

That with his image shone beneath. 

But what are cups without the aid 

Of song to speed them as they flow ? 
And see — a lovely Georgian maid, 

With all the bloom, the freshen'd glow 
Of her own country maidens' looks. 
When warm they rise from Teflis' brooks :" 
And with an eye whose restless ray, 

Full, floating, dark — oh he, who knows 
His heart is weak, of Heaven should pray 

To guard him from such eyes as those ! — 
With a voluptuous wildness flings 
Her snowy hand across the strings 
Of a syrinda,* and thus sings : — 

" Come hither, come hither — by night and? 
by day 
We linger in pleasures that never are 
gone ; 
Like the waves of the summer, as one dies 
away, . 

Another as sweet and as shining comes on. 
And the love that is o'er, in expiring gives 
birth 
To a new one as warm, as unequall'd in 
bliss ; 
And oh ! if there be an Elysium on earth, 
It is this, it is this. 

" Here maidens are sighing, and fragrant 
their sigh 
As the flower of the Amra just oped by a 
bee; 
And precious their tears as that rain from 
the sky,* 
Which turns into pearls as it falls in the 
sea. 
Oh ! think what the kiss and the smile must 
be worth, 
When the sigh and the tear are so perfect 
in bliss ; 
And own, if there be an Elysium on earth, 
It is this, it is this. 

1 "The Indiana feign that Cupid was first seen floating 
iown the Ganges on the Nymphcea Nelumbo." 
a "Teflis is celebrated for its natural warm baths." 

• " The Indian syrinda or guitar." 

* " The Nisan. or drops of spring rain, which they believe 
to produce pearls if they fall into shells." 



" Here sparkles the nectar that, hallow'd by 
love, 
Could draw down those angels of old from 
their sphere, 
Who for wine of this earth left the fountains 
above, 
And forgot heaven's stars for the eyes we 
have here. 
And, bless'd with the odor our goblets give 
forth, 
What spirit the sweets of this Eden wonld 
miss ? 
For oh ! if there be an Elysium on earth, 
It is this, it is this." ° 

The Georgian's song was scarcely mute, 

When the same measure, sound foi 
sound, 
Was caught up by another lute, 

And so divinely breathed around, 
They all stood hush'd, and wondering, 

And turn'd and look'd into the air, . 
As if they thought to see the wing 

Of Israfil," the angel, there ; — 
So powerfully on every soul 
That new enchanted measure stole. 
While now a voice, sweet as the note 
Of the charm'd lute was heard to float 
Along its chords, and so entwine 

Its sound with theirs, that none knew 
whether 
The voice or lute was most divine, 

So wondrously they went together: — 

" There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel 
has told, 
When two that are link'd in one heavenly 
tie, 
With heart never changing and brow never 
cold, 
Love on through all ills, and love on till 
they die ! 
One hour of a passion so sacred is worth 
Whole ages of heartless and wandering 
bliss ; 
And oh ! if there be an Elysium on earth, 
It is this, it is this." 

• "Around the exterior of the Dewan Khass (a building of 
Shah Allum's) in the cornice are the following lines in letter* 
of gold upon a ground of white marble—' If there be a para- 
dise upon earth, it is this, it is this.' "—Fi-anMin. 

• " The Angel of Music, who has the most melodious voit» 
of all God's creatures."— Sale. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



'Twas not the air, 'twas not the words, 
But that deep magic in the chords 
And in the lips that gave such power 
As music knew not till that hour. 
At once a hundred voices said, 
" It is the mask'd Arabian maid !" 
While Selim, who had felt the same 
Deepest of any, and had lain 
Some minutes rapt, as in a trance, 

After the fairy sounds were o'er, 
Too inly touch'd for utterance, 

Now motion'd with his hand for more : — 

" Fly to the desert, fly with me, 
Our Arab tents are rude for thee ; 
But oh ! the choice what heart can doubt 
Of tents with love or thrones without ? 

" Our rocks are rough, but smiling there 
The acacia waves her yellow hair, 
Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less 
For flowering in a wilderness. 

41 Our sands are bare, but down their slope 
The silvery-footed antelope 
As gracefully and gayly springs 
As o'er the marble courts of kings. 

44 Then come — thy Arab maid will be 
The loved and lone acacia tree, 
The antelope, whose feet shall bless 
With their light sound thy loneliness. 

44 Oh ! there are looks and tones that dart 
An instant sunshine through the heart, — 
As if the soul that minute caught 
Some treasure it through life had sought ; 

" As if the very lips and eyes 
Predestined to have all our sighs, 
And never be forgot again, 
Sparkled and spoke before as then ! 

" So came thy every glance and tone, 
When first on me they breathed and shone ; 
New, as if brought from other spheres, 
Yet welcome as if loved for years ! 

u Then fly with me, — if thou hast known 
No other flame, nor falsely thrown 
A gem away, that thou hadst sworn 
Should ever in thy heart be worn. 



" Come, if the love thou hast for me 
Is pure and fresh as mine for thee, — 
Fresh as the fountain under ground, 
When first 'tis by the lapwing found." 

" But if for me thou dost forsake 
Some other maid, and rudely break 
Her worshipp'd image from its base, 
To give to me the ruin'd place ; — 

" Then, fare-thee-well ! — I'd rather make 
My bower upon some icy lake 
When thawing suns begin to shine, 
Than trust to love so false as thine !" 

There was a pathos in this lay, 

That, even without enchantment's art, 
Would instantly have found its way 

Deep into Selim's burning heart ; 
But breathing, as it did, a tone 
To earthly lutes and lips unknown ; 
With every chord fresh from the touch 
Of music's spirit, — 'twas too much ! 
Starting, he dash'd away the cup, — 

Which, all the time of this sweet air, 
His hand bad held, untasted, up, 

As if 'twere fix'd by magic there, — 
And naming her, so long unnamed, 
So long unseen, wildly exclaim'd, 
" O Nourmahal ! O Nourmahal ! 

Hadst thou but sung this witching strain, 
I could forget — forgive thee all, 

And never leave those eyes again." 

The mask is off — the charm is wrought — 
And Selim to his heart has caught, 
In blushes, more than ever bright, 
His Nourmahal, his Haram's Light ! 
And well do vanish'd frowns enhance 
The charm of every brightened glance; 
And dearer seems each dawning smile 
For having lost its light a while ; 
And, happier now for all her sighs, 

As on his arm her head reposes, 
She whispers him, with laughing eyes, 

" Remember, love, the Feast of 



Fadladeen, at the conclusion of this light 
rhapsody, took occasion to sum up his opin- 



1 The Hndhud, or lapwing, is supposed to have the powei 
of discovering water under ground. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



157 



ion of the young Cashmerian's poetry, — of 
which, he trusted, they had that evening 
heard the last. Having recapitulated the 
epithets " frivolous" — " inharmonious" — 
"nonsensical," he proceeded to say that, 
■viewing it in the most favorable light, it re- 
sembled one of those Maldivian boats, to 
which the princess had alluded in the relation 
of her dream (p. 130) — a slight, gilded thing, 
6ent adrift without rudder or ballast, and 
with nothing but vapid sweets and faded 
flowers on board. The profusion, indeed, of 
flowers and birds which this poet had ready 
on all occasions,— not to mention dews, gems, 
<fcc, — was a most oppressive kind of opulence 
to his hearers ; and had the unlucky effect 
of giving to his style all the glitter of the 
flower-garden without its method, and all 
the flutter of the aviary without its song. 
In addition to this, he chose his subjects 
badly, and was always most inspired by the 
worst part of them. The charms of pagan- 
ism, the merits of rebellion, — these were the 
themes honored with his particular enthusi- 
asm ; and, in the poem just recited, one of 
his most palatable passages was in praise of 
that beverage of the Unfaithful — wine; 
" being, perhaps," said he, relaxing into a 
smile, as conscious of his own character in 
the Haram on this point, " one of those 
bards, whose fancy owes all its illumination 
to the grape, like that painted porcelain, 1 so 
curious and so rare, whose images are only 
visible when liquor is poured into it." Upon 
the whole it was his opinion, from the speci- 
mens which they had heard, and which, he 
begged to say, were the most tiresome part 
of the journey, that — whatever other merits 
this well-dressed young gentleman might 
possess — poetry was by no means his proper 
avocation : " and indeed," concluded the 
critic, " from his fondness for flowers and for 
birds, I would venture to suggest that a 
florist or a bird-catcher is a much more suit- 
able calling for him than a poet." 

They had now begun to ascend those bar- 
ren mountains which separate Cashmere 



1 " The Chinese had formerly the art of painting on the 
sides of porcelain vessels' fish and other animals, which were 
only perceptible 'when the^ vessel was fall of some liquor. 
They are evety-now and then trying to recover the art of this 
magical painting, bat to no purpose." — Dunn. < > 



from the rest of India; and, as the heati 
were intolerable, and the time of their en- 
campments limited to the few hours neces- 
sary for refreshment and repose, there was an 
end to all their delightful evenings, and Lalla 
Rookh saw no more of Ftvramorz. She now 
felt that her short dream of happiness was 
over, and that she had nothing but the recol- 
lection of its few blissful hours, like the one 
draught of sweet water that serves the camel 
across the wilderness, to be her heart's re- 
freshment during the dreary waste of life 
that was before her. The blight that had 
fallen upon her spirits soon found its way to 
her cheek ; and her ladies saw with regret — 
though not without some suspicion of the 
cause — that the beauty of their mistress, of 
which they were almost as proud as of their 
own, was fast vanishing away at the very 
moment of all when she had most need of it. 
What must the King of Bucharia feel, when, 
instead of the lively and beautiful Lalla 
Rookh, whom the poets of Delhi had de- 
scribed as more perfect than the divinest 
images in the House of Azor, 2 he should re 
ceive a pale and inanimate victim, upon 
whose cheek neither health nor pleasure 
bloomed, and from whose eyes Love had fled, 
— to hide himself in her heart ! 

If anything could have charmed away the 
melancholy of her spirits, it would have been 
the fresh airs and enchanting scenery of that 
valley, which the Persians so justly called 
the " Unequalled." But neither the coolness 
of its atmosphere, so luxurious after toiling 
up those bare and burning mountains; neither 
the splendor of the minarets and pagodas, 
that shone out from the depths of its woods, 
nor the grottos, hermitages, and miraculous 
fountains, 3 which make every spot of that 
region holy ground; neither the countless 
waterfalls that rush into the valley from all 
those high and romantic mountains that en- 
circle it, nor the fair city on the lake, whose 



2 An eminent carver of idolB, said in the Koran to be father . 
to Abraham. " I have such a lovely idol as is not to be met . 
with in the house of Azor."— Eafiz. 

' * " The pardonable superstition of the sequestered inhabit- 
ants has multiplied the places of worship of Mahadeo, of 
Beschan, and of Brama. All. Cashmere is holy land, and mi- 
raculous fountains abound."— Major RinmC's Memoirs of • , 
Jf*»» nf Eindostan. . < • 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



houses, roofed with flowers,' appeared at a 
distance like one vast and variegated par- 
terre : — not all these wonders and glories of 
the most lovely country under the sun could 
steal her heart for a minute from those sad 
thoughts, which but darkened and grew bit- 
terer every step she advanced. 

The gay pomps and processions that met 
her upon her entrance into the valley, and 
the magnificence with which the roads 
all along were decorated, did honor to the 
taste and gallantry of the young king. It 
was night when they approached the city, 
and for the last two miles they had passed 
under arches, thrown from hedge to hedge, 
festooned with only those rarest roses from 
which the Attar Gul, more precious than 
gold, is distilled, and illuminated in rich and 
fanciful forms with lanterns of the triple- 
colored tortoise-shell of Pegu." Sometimes, 
from a dark wood by the side of the road, a 
display of fire-works would break out, so 
sudden and so brilliant, that a Brahmin 
might think he saw that grove, in whose 
purple shade the god of battles was born, 
bursting into a flame at the moment of his 
birth. While, at other times, a quick and 
playful irradiation continued to brighten all 
the fields and gardens by which they passed, 
forming a line of dancing lights along the 
horizon ; like the meteors of the north as 
they are seen by those hunters who pursue 
the white and blue foxes on the confines of 
the Icy Sea. 

These arches and fire-works delighted the 
ladies of the Princess exceedingly ; and, 
with their usual good logic, they deduced 
from his taste for illuminations, that the 
King of Bucharia would make the most ex- 
emplary husband imaginable. Nor, indeed, 
could Lalla Rookh herself help feeling the 
kindness and splendor with which the young 
bridegroom welcomed her; — but she also 



i " On a standing roof of wood is laid a covering of fine earth, 
which shelters the building from the great quantity of snow 
that falls in the winter season. This fence communicates an 
•qual warmth in winter, as a refreshing coolness in the sum- 
mer season, when the tops of the houses, which are planted 
with a variety of flowers, exhibit at a distance the spacious 
view of a beautifully chequered parterre."— Forster. 

* " Two hundred slaves there are who have no other office 
than to hunt the woods and marshes for triple-colored tortoises 
lor the King's Vivary. Of the shells of these also lanterns an 
Bade."— YinamiU Blanc'i Travel*. 



felt how painful is the gratitude which kind- 
ness from those we cannot love excites ; and 
that their best blandishments come over the 
heart with all that chilling and deadly 
sweetness which we can fancy in the cold, 
odoriferous wind' that is to blow over this 
earth in the last days. 

The marriage was fixed for the morning 
after her arrival, when she was, for the first 
time, to be presented to the monarch in that 
imperial palace beyond the lake, called the 
Shalimar. Though a night of more wakeful 
and anxious thought had never been passed 
in the Happy Valley, yet, when she rose in 
the morning, and her ladies came round her, 
to assist in the adjustment of the bridal or- 
naments, they thought they had never seen 
her look half so beautiful. What she had 
lost of the bloom and radiancy of her charms 
was more than made up by that intellectual 
expression — that soul in the eyes — which is 
worth all the rest of loveliness. When they 
had tinged her fingers with the henna leaf, 
and placed upon her brow a small coronel 
of jewels, of the shape worn by the ancient 
Queens of Bucharia, they flung over her 
head the rose-colored bridal veil, and she 
proceeded to the barge that was to convey 
her across the lake; — first kissing, with a 
mournful look, the little amulet of cornelian 
which her father had hung about her neck at 
parting. 

The morning was as fair as the maid upon 
whose nuptials it rose, and the shining lake, 
all covered with boats, the minstrels playing 
upon the shores of the islands, and the 
crowded summer-houses on the green hills 
around, with shawls and banners waving 
from their roofs, presented such a picture of 
animated rejoicing, as only she who was the 
object of it all did not feel with transport. 
To Lalla Rookh alone it was a melancholy 
pageant ; nor could she have even borne to 
look upon the scene, were it not for a hope 
that, among the crowds around she might 
once more perhaps catch a glimpse of Fera- 

• This wind, which is to blow from Syria Damascene is, ac- 
cording to the Mohammedans, one of the signs of the Last 
Day's approach. 

Another of the signs is, " Great distress in the world, so 
that a man when he passes by another's grave shall say. 
Would to God I were In his place."— Salt') Preliminary DU- 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



morz. So much was her imagination haunted 
by this thought, that there was scarcely an 
islet or boat she passed, at which her heart 
did not flutter with a momentary fancy that 
he was there. Happy, in her eyes, the hum- 
blest slave upon whom the light of his dear 
looks fell ! In the barge immediately after 
the Princess was Fadladeen, with his silken 
curtains thrown widely apart, that all might 
iave the benefit of his august presence, and 
mth his head full of the speech he was to 
deliver to the king, "concerning Feramorz, 
and literature, and the chabuk, as connected 
therewith." 

They had now entered the canal which 
leads from the Lake to the splendid domes 
and saloons of the Shalimar, and glided on 
through gardens ascendhag from each bank, 
full of flowering shrubs that made the air all 
perfume ; while from the middle of the canal 
rose jets of water, smooth and unbroken, to 
such a dazzling height, that they stood like 
pillars of diamond in the sunshine. After 
sailing under the arches of various saloons, 
they at length arrived at the last and most 
magnificent, where the monarch awaited the 
coming of his bride ; and such was the agita- 
tion of her heart and frame, that it was with 
difficulty she walked up the marble steps, 
which were covered with cloth of gold for 
her ascent from the barge. At the end of 
the hall stood two thrones, as precious as the 
cerulean throne of Koolburga, 1 on one of 



■ " On Mohammed Shaw's return to Koolburga, (the capital 
of Dekkau,) he made a great festival, and mounted this throne 
with much pomp and magnificence, calling it Firozeh or Ce- 
rulean. I have heard some old persons, who saw the throne 
Firozeh in the reign of Sultan Mamood Bhamenee, describe 
it. They say that it was in length nine feet, and three in 
breadth ; made of ebony, covered with plates of pure gold, and 
Bet with precious stones of immense value. Every prince of 
the house of Bhamenee, who possessed this throne, made a 
point of adding to it some rich stones, so that when in the 
reign of Saltan Hamocd it was taken to pieces, to remove 
■one of the levels to be »et in vaaea and cups, the jewellers 



which sat Aliris, the youthful King of 
Bucharia, and on the other was, in a few 
minutes, to be placed the most beautiful 
Princess in the world. Immediately upon 
the entrance of Lalla Rookh into the saloon, 
the monarch descended from his throne to 
meet her ; but scarcely had he time to take 
her hand in his, when she screamed with 
surprise, and fainted at his feet. It was 
Feramorz himself that stood before her! 
Feramorz was, himself, the sovereign of 
Bucharia, who in this disguise had accom- 
panied his young bride from Delhi, and hav- 
ing won her love as an humble minstrel, now 
amply deserved to enjoy it as a king. 

The consternation of Fadladeen at this 
discovery was, for the moment, almost piti- 
able. But change of opinion is a resource 
too convenient in courts for this experienced 
courtier not to have learned to avail himself 
of it. His criticisms were all, of course, re- 
canted, instantly : he was seized with an 
admiration of the king's verses, as unbounded 
as, he begged him to believe, it was disinter 
ested ; and the following week saw him in 
possession of an additional place, swearing 
by all the saints of Islam that never had 
there existed so great a poet as the monarch 
Aliris, and ready to prescribe his favorite 
regimen of the chabuk for every man, woman, 
and child that dared to think otherwise. 

Of the happiness of the King and Queen 
of Bucharia, after such a beginning, there 
can be but little doubt; and, among the 
lesser symptoms, it is recorded of Lalla 
Rookh, that, to the day of her death, in 
memory of their delightful journey, she 
never called the king by any other name 
than Feramorz. 



valued it at one corore of oons, (nearly four millions sterli ng. ) 
I learned also that it was called Firozeh from being partly 
enamelled of a sky-bine color, which w»s in time totally con- 
cealed by the number of jewels."— Firiehta 



^iMtlfoutoixfi §ttm$, 



FRAGMENT OF COLLEGE EXER- 
CISES. 

" Nobilitae eola eBt atque nnica virtus." — Juv. 

Makk those proud boasters of a splendid 

line, 
Like gilded ruins, mouldering while they 

shine, 
How heavy sits that weight of alien show, 
Like martial helm upon an infant's brow ; 
Those borrow'd splendors, whose contrasting 

light 
Throws back the native shades in deeper 

night. 

Ask the proud train who glory's shade 
pursue, 

Where are the arts by which that glory grew ? 

The genuine virtues that with eagle gaze 

Sought young Renown in all her orient blaze ! 

Where is the heart hy chemic truth refined, 

The exploring soul, whose eye had read 
mankind ? 

Where are the links that twined with heav- 
enly art 

His country's interest round the patriot's 
heart? 

Where is the tongue that scatter'd words of 
fire? 

The spirit breathing through the poet's lyre ? 

Do these descend with all that tide of fame 

Which vainly waters an unfruitful name ? 



THE SAME. 

* Jnstum belJutn quibns a eceesariti m, et pia arms quitrae nulls 
nisi in armis relinqnitnr spes."— Livy. 

Is there no call, no consecrating cause, 
Approved by Heaven, ordain'd by nature's 
laws, 



Where justice flies the herald of our way, 
And truth's pure beams upon the banner* 
play? 

Yes, there's a call sweet as an angel's breath 
To slumbering babes, or innocence in death ; 
And urgent as the tongue of heaven within. 
When the mind's balance trembles upon sin. 

Oh ! 'tis our country's voice, whose claim 

should meet 
An echo in the soul's most deep retreat ; 
Along the heart's responding string should 

run, 
Nor let a tone there vibrate — but the one ! 



SONG.' 



Mart, I believed thee true, 

And I was blest in thus believing ; 

But now I mourn that e'er I knew 
A girl so fair and so deceiving ! 

Fare thee we'u I 

Few have ever loved like me, — 

Oh ! I have loved thee too sincerely ! 

And few have e'er deceived like thee, — 
Alas ! deceived me too severely ! 

Fare thee well ! 

Fare thee well ! yet think a while 

On one whose bosom bleeds to doubt thee ; 

Who now would rather trust that smile, 
And die with thee than live without thee t 
Fare thee well I 

Fare thee well ! I'll think of thee, 
Thou leav'st me many a bitter token ; 

For see, distracting woman ! sec, 

My peace is gone, my heart is broken ! 

Fare thee well ! 



> To the Scotch air, " Gala Water.' 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



161 



TO THE LARGE AND BEAUTIFUL 
MISS . 



In wedlock a species of lottery lies, 

Where in blanks and in prizes we deal 
But how conies it that you, such a capital 
prize 
Should so long have remained on the 
wheel ! 

If ever, by fortune's indulgent decree, 
To me such a ticket should roll, 

A sixteenth, Heaven knows ! were sufficient 
for me ; 
For what could I do with the whole ? 



INCONSTANCY. 

And do I then wonder that Julia deceives me, 
When surely there's nothing in nature 
more common ? 
She vows to be true, and while vowing she 
leaves me — 
But ro aid I expect any more from a 
woman ? 

O woman ! your heart is a pitiful treasure ; 
And Mohammed's doctrine was not too 
severe, 
When he thought you were only materials 
of pleasure, 
And reason and thinking were out of your 
sphere. 

By your heart, when the fond sighing lover 
can win it, 
He thinks that an age of anxiety's paid ; 
But, oh ! while he's blest, let him die on the 
minute — 
If he live but a day, he'll be surely be- 
tray'd. 



TO JULIA. 



Though Fate, my girl, may bid us part, 
Our souls it cannot, shall not sever 



The heart will seek its kindred heart, 
And cling to it as close as ever. 

But must we, must we part indeed ? 

Is all our dream of rapture over ? 
And does not Julia's bosom bleed 

To leave so dear, so fond a lover ? 

Does she too mourn ? — Perhaps she may ; 

Perhaps she weeps our blisses fleeting ; 
But why is Julia's eye so gay, 

If Julia's heart like mine is beating ? 

I oft have loved the brilliant glow 

Of rapture in her blue eye streaming — 

But can the bosom bleed with woe, 
While joy is in the glances beaming ? 

No, no ! — Yet, love, I will not chide, 

Although your heart were fond of roving : 

Nor that, nor all the world beside, 

Could keep your faithful boy from loving. 

You'll soon be distant from his eye, 

And, with you, all that's worth possessing. 

Oh ! then it will be sweet to die, 
When life has lost its only blessing ! 



TO ROSA. 



Does the harp of Rosa slumber? 
Once it breathed the sweetest number 1 
Never does a wilder song 
Steal the breezy lyre along, 
When the wind, in odors dying, 
Woos it with enamor'd sighing. 

Does the harp of Rosa cease ? 
Once it told a tale of peace 
To her lover's throbbing breast — 
Then he was divinely blest ! 
Ah ! but Rosa loves no more, 
Therefore Rosa's song is o'er ; 
And her harp neglected lies ; 
And her boy forgotten sigk«. 
Silent harp— forgotten lover — 
Rosa's love and song are over! 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



WRITTEN IN THE BLANK LEAF OF 
A LADY'S COMMON-PLACE BOOK 

Heee is one leaf reserved for me, 
From all thy sweet memorials free ; 
And here my simple song might tell 
The feelings thou must guess so well. 
But could I thus, within thy mind, 
One little vacant corner find, 
Where no impression yet is seen, 
Where no memorial yet has been, 
Oh 1 it should be my sweetest care 
To write my name forever there I 



ANACREONTIC. 

" In lachrymal verterat omne meram."— Tib., lib. L, eleg. 8. 

Press the grape, and let it pour 
Around the board its purple shower : 
And while the drops my goblet steep, 
I'll think — in woe the clusters weep. 

Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine : 
Heaven grant no tears, but tears of wine. 
Weep on : and, as thy sorrows flow, 
I'll tv!.e the hixury of woe. 



ANACREONTIC. 

Fkiend of my soul ! this goblet sip, 

'Twill chase that pensive tear ; 
Tis not so sweet as woman's lip, 
But, oh ! 'tis more sincere. 
Like her delusive beam, 

'Twill steal away thy mind : 
But, like affection's dream, 
It leaves no sting behind 1 

Come, twine the wreath, thy brows to shade ; 

These flowers were cull'd at noon ; — 
like woman's love the rose will fade, 
But, ah ! not half so soon ! 

For though the flower's decay'd, 

Its fragraHce is not o'er ; 
But once when love's betray'd, 
The heart can bloom no more 1 



ELEGIAC STANZAS. 

How sweetly could I lay my head 
Within the cold grave's silent breast ; 

Where sorrow's tears no more are shed, 
No more the ills of life molest. 

For, ah ! my heart, how very soon 

The glittering dreams of youth are past 

And long before it reach its noon, 
The sun of life is overcast. 



woman ! if by simple wile 

Thy soul has stray'd from honor's track, 
Tis mercy only can beguile, 

By gentle ways, the wanderer back. 

The stain that on thy virtue lies, 

Wash'd by thy tears, may yet decay ; 

As clouds that sully morning skies 
May all be wept in showers away. 

Go, go — be innocent, and live — 

The tongues of men may wound thee sore 
But Heaven in pity can forgive, 

And bids thee " go, and sin no more I" 



TO ROSA. 

And are you then a thing of art, 
Enslaving all, and loving none ; 

And have I strove to gain a heart 

Which every coxcomb thinks his own I 

Do you thus seek to flirt a number, 
And through a round of danglers run, 

Because your heart's insipid slumber 
Could never wake to fed tor one t 

Tell me at once if this be true, 

And I shall calm my jealous breast ; 

Shall learn to join the dangling crew, 
And share your simpers with the rest 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



But if your heart be not so free, — 
Oh ! if another share that heart, 

Tell not the saddening tale to me, 
But mingle mercy with your art. 



THE SURPRISE. 

Chlobis, I swear, by all I ever swore, 
That from this hour I shall not love thee 
more. — 
" What ! love no more ? Oh ! why this 
alter'd vow ?" 
Because I cannot love thee more than now I 



A DREAM 

I thought this heart consuming lay 
On Cupid's burning shrine : 

I thought he stole thy heart away, 
And placed it near to mine. 

I saw thy heart begin to melt, 

Like ice before the sun ; 
Till both a glow congenial felt, 

And mingkd into one ! 



WRITTEN IN A COMMON-PLACE 
BOOK, 

CALLED "THE BOOK OF FOLLIES;" 

To which every one that opened it slumld contribute 
tomething. 

TO THE BOOK OF FOLLIES. 

This tribute's from a wretched elf, 
Who hails thee, emblem of himself ! 
The book of life, which I have traced, 
Has been, like thee, a motley waste 
■Of follies scribbled o'er and o'er, 
One folly bringing hundreds more. 
Some have indeed been writ so neat, 
In characters, so fair, so sweet, 
That those who judge not too severely, 



Have said they loved such follies dearly ! 
Yet still, O book ! the allusion stands : 
For these were penn'd by female hands ; 
The rest, — alas ! I own the truth, — 
Have all been scribbled so uncouth, 
That Prudence, with a withering look, 
Disdainful flings away the book. 
Like thine, its pages here and there 
Have oft been stain'd with blots of care ; 
And sometimes hours of peace, I own, 
Upon some fairer leaves have shown, 
White as the snowings of that heaven 
By which those hours of peace were given. 
But now no longer — such, oh ! such 
The blast of Disappointment's touch ! — 
No longer now those hours appear ; 
Each leaf is sullied by a tear : 
Blank, blank is every page with care, 
Not even a folly brightens there. 
Will they yet brighten ? — Never, never ! 
Then shut the book, alas ! forever 1 



THE BALLAD. 

Thou hast sent me a flowery band, 

And told me 'twas fresh from the field ; 

That the leaves were untouch'd by the hand, 
And the purest of odors would yield. 

And indeed it was fragrant and fair ; 

But, if it were handled by thee, 
It would bloom with a livelier air, 

And would surely be sweeter to me ! 

Then take it, and let it entwine 
Thy tresses, so flowing and bright ; 

And each little floweret will shine ■ 
More rich than a gem to my sight. 

Let the odorous gale of thy breath 

Embalm it with many a sigh ; 
Nay, let it be withor'd to death, 

Beneath the warm noon of thine eye. 

And, instead of the dew that it bears, 
The dew dropping fresh from the tree ; 

On its leaves let me number the tears 
That affection has stolen from thee ! 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



THE TEAR. 

Ok beds of snow the moonbeam slept, 
And chilly was the midnight gloom, 

When by the damp grave Ellen wept — 
Sweet maid ! it was her Lindor's tomb ! 

A warm tear gush'd, the wintry air 
Congeal'd it as it flow'd away : 

All night it lay an ice-drop there, 
At morn it glitter'd in the ray ! 

An angel wandering from her sphere, 
Who saw this bright, this frozen gem, 

To dew-eyed Pity brought the tear, 
And hung it on her diadem ! 



SONG. 



Have you not seen the timid tear 

Steal trembling from mine eye ? 
Have you not mark'd the flush of fear, 

Or caught the murmur'd sigh ? 
And can you think my love is chill, 

Nor fix'd on you alone ? 
And can you rend, by doubting still, 

A heart so much your own ? 

To you my soul's affections move 

Devoutly, warmly, true ; 
My life has been a task of love, 

One long, long thought of you. 
If all your tender faith is o'er, 

If still my truth you'll try ; 
Alas ! I know but one proof more — 

I'll bless your name, and die ! 



ELEGIAC STANZAS. 

" Sic jnvat perire." 

When wearied wretches sink to sleep, 
How heavenly soft their slumbers lie ! 

How sweet is death to those who weep, 
To those who weep and long to die ! 

Saw you the soft and grassy bed, 
Where flowerets deck the green earth'i 
breast ? 



'Tis there I wish to lay my head, 
'Tis there I wish to sleep at rest ! 

Oh ! let not tears emoalm my tomb — 
None but the dews by twilight given ! 

Oh ! let not sighs disturb the gloom — 
None but the whispering winds of heaven! 



A NIGHT THOUGHT. 

How oft a cloud, with envious veil, 
Obscures yon bashful light, 

Which seems so modestly to steal 
Along the waste of night ! 

"Tis thus the world's obtrusive wrongs 

Obscure with malice keen 
Some timid heart, which only longs 

To live and die unseen ! 



SONG. 



Sweetest love ! I'll not forget thee ; 

Time shall only teach my heart, 
Fonder, warmer, to regret thee, 

Lovely, gentle as thou art ! 
Farewell, Bessy ! 

Yet, oh ! yet again we'll meet, love, 
And repose our hearts at last : 

Oh ! sure 'twill then be sweet, love, 
Calm to think on sorrows past. 
Fareweil, Bessy ' 

Still I feel my heart is breaking, 
When I think I stray from thee, 

Round the world that quiet seeking, 
Which I fear is not for me ! 
Farewell, Bessy ! 

Calm to peace thy lover's bosom — 
Can it, dearest ! must it be ? 

Thou within an hour shalt lose him, 
He forever loses thee ! 
Farewell, Bessy ! 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



165 



THE GENIUS OF HARMONY. 

AN IRREGULAR ODE. 

-Cicero, DeNat. 



There lies a shell beneath the waves, 
In many a hollow winding wreathed, 
Such as of old 
Echo'd the breath that warbling sea-maids 
breathed : 

This magic shell 
From the white bosom of a syren fell, 
As once she wander'd by the tide that laves 
Sicilia's sands of gold. 
It bears 
Upon its shining side, the mystic notes 

Of those entrancing airs 
The genii of the deep were wont to swell 
When heaven's eternal orbs their midnight 
music roll'd ! 
Oh ! seek it wheresoe'er it floats ; 
And if the power 
Of thrilling numbers to thy soul be dear, 
Go, bring the bright shell to my bower, 
And I will fold thee in such downy dreams 
As lap the spirit of the seventh sphere 
When Luna's distant tone falls faintly on his 
ear, 
And thou shalt own 
That, through the circle of creation's zone, 
Where matter darkles or where, spirit 
beams ; 
From the pellucid tides that whirl 
The planets through their maze of song, 
To the small rill that weeps along, 
Murmuring o'er beds of pearl; 
From the rich sigh 
Of the sun's arrow through an evening 

To the faint breath the tuneful osier yields 

On Afric's burning fields ; a 
Oh ! thou shalt own this universe divine 

Is mine ! 
That I respire in all and all in me, 
One mighty mingled soul of boundless har- 
mony ! 

1 Heraclides, uporUhe allegories of Homer, conjectures thai 
the idea of the harmony of the spheres originated with this 
poet, -who, in representing the solar heams as arrows, supposes 
them to emit a peculiar sound in the air. 

■ In the account of Africa which d' Ablancourt has translated, 
there is mention of a tree in that country whose hranches, 
when shaken by the hand, produce very sweet, sounds. 



Welcome, welcome, mystic shell ! 
Many a star has ceased to burn," 
Many a tear has Saturn's urn 
O'er the cold bosom of the ocean wept, 
Since thy aerial spell 
Hath in the waters slept ! 
I fly 
With the bright treasure to my choral 
sky, 
Where she, who waked its early swell, 
The syren with a foot of fire, 
Walks o'er the great string of my Orphie 
Lyre,' 
Or guides around the burning pole 
The winged chariot of some blissful soul ! 
While thou, 
O son of earth ! what dreams shall rise for 
thee! 
Beneath Hispania's sun 
Thou'lt see a streamlet run, 
Which I have warm'd with dews of melody. 

Listen ! — when the night wind dies 
Down the still current, like a harp it sighs ! 
A liquid chord is every wave that flows, 
An airy plectrum every breeze that blows ! 

There, by that wondrous stream, 
Go lay thy languid brow, 
And I will send thee such a godlike dream, 
Such — mortal ! mortal ! hast thou heard of 

him,' 
Who, many a night, with his primordial 
lyre, 
Sate on the chill Pangsean mount, 
And looking to the orient dim, 
Watch'd the first flowing of that sacred 
fount, 
From which his soul had drunk its fire ! 
Oh ! think what visions, in that lonely hour, 
Stole o'er his musing breast ! 
What pious ecstasy 
Wafted his prayer to that eternal Power, 

Whose seal upon this world imprest' 
The various forms of bright divinity ! 



* Alluding to the extinction, or at least the disappearance, 
of some of those fixed stars which we are taught to consider 
as suns attended each by its system. 

« Porphyry says that Pythagoras held the sea to be a tear. 
6 The syBtem of the harmonized orbs was styled by the an- 
cients " The Great Lyre of Orpheus." 

• Orpheus. 

T In one of the Hymns of Orpheus, he attributes a figured 
seal to Apollo, with which he imagines that deity to have 
stamped a variety of forms upon the universe. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Or, dost thou know what dreams I wove, 
'Mid the deep horror of that silent bower, 1 
Where the rapt Samian slept his holy 
slumber ! 
When, free 
From every earthly chain, 
From wreaths of pleasure and from bonds of 
pain, 
His spirit flew through fields above, 
Drank at the source of nature's fontal 

number,' 
And saw, in mystic choir, around him move 
The stars of song, Heaven's burning min- 
strelsy ! 
Such dreams, so heavenly bright, 
I swear 
By the great diadem that twines my hair, 
And by the seven gems that sparkle there,' 

Mingling their beams 
In a soft iris of harmonious light, 
O mortal! such shall be thy radiant 
dreams ! 



SONG. 



When Time, who steals our years away, 
Shall steal our pleasures too, 

The memory of the past will stay, 
And half our joys renew. 

Then, Chloe, when thy beauty's flower 

Shall feel the wintry air, 
Remembrance will recall the hour 

When thou alone wert fair ! 

Then talk no more of future gloom ; 

Our joys shall always last; 
For hope shall brighten days to come, 

And memory gild the past ! 

Come, Chloe, fill the genial bowl, 
I drink to love and thee : 



1 Alluding to the cave near Samoa, where Pythagoras de- 
rated the greater part of his days and nights to meditation, 
and the mysteries of his philosophy. 

» The Tetractys, or Sacred Nnmber of the Pythagoreans, 
on which they solemnly swore, and which they called 
■Kecyav aevaov $v(5eqoS, "The Fountain of Perennial 
Nature." 

' This diadem is intended to represent the analogy between 
the notes of music and the prismatic colors. 



Thou never canst decay in soul, 
Thou'lt still be young for me. 

And as thy lips the tear-drop chase, 
Which on thy cheek they find, 

So hope shall steal away the trace 
Which sorrow leaves behind ! 

Then fill the bowl — away with gloom I 

Our joys shall always last ; 
For hope shall brighten days to come, 

And memory gild the past ! 

But mark, at thought of future years 

When love shall lose its soul, 
My Chloe drops her timid tears, 

They mingle with my bowl ! 

How like the bowl of wine, my fair, 

Our loving life shall fleet ; 
Though tears may sometimes mingle there, 

The draught will still be sweet ! 

Then fill the bowl ! — away with gloom f 

Our joys shall always last; 
For hope will brighten days to come, 

And memory gild the past ! 



PEACE AND GLORY. 



Where is now the smile that lighten'd 

Every hero's couch of rest ? 
Where is now the hope that brighten'd 

Honor's eye and pity's breast ? 
Have we lost the wreath we braided 

For our weary warrior men ? 
Is the faithless olive faded, 

Must the bay be pluck'd again ? 

Passing hour of sunny weather, 

Lovely in your light a while, 
Peace and Glory, wed together, 

Wander' d through the blessed isle; 
And the eyes of peace would glisten, 

Dewy as a morning sun, 
When the timid maid would listen 

To the deeds her chief had done. 

Is the hour of meeting over ? 

Must the maiden's trembling feet 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Waft her from her warlike lover 
To the desert's still retreat ? 

Fare you well ! with sighs we banish 
Nymph so fair and guest so bright ; 

5Tet the smile with which you vanish 
Leaves behind a soothing light ! 

Soothing light ! that long shall sparkle 

O'er your warrior's sanguine way 
Through the field where horrors darkle, 

Shedding Hope's consoling ray ! 
Long the smile his heart will cherish, 

To its absent idol true ; 
While around him myriads perish, 

Glory still will sigh for you ! 



TO CLOE. 

IMITATED FROM MAKTIAL. 

I could resign that eye of blue, 

Howe'er it burn, howe'er it thrill me; 

And though your lip be rich with dew, 
To lose it, Cloe, scarce would kill me. 

That snowy neck I ne'er should miss, 
.However oft I've raved about it ; 

And though your heart can beat with bliss, 
I think my soul could live without it. 

In short, I've learn'd so well to fast, 
That, sooth my love, I know not whither 

I might not bring myself at last 
To — do without you altogether ! 



LYING. 

L do confess, in many a sigh 

My lips have breathed you many a lie, 

And who, with such delights in view, 

Would lose them for a lie or two ? 

Nay, look not thus, with brow reproving; 

Lies are, my dear, the soul of loving ! 

If half we tell the girls were true, 

If half we swear to think and do, 

Were aught but lying's bright illusion, 

The world would be in strange confusion ! 



If ladies' eyes were, every one, 
As lovers' swear, a radiant sun, 
Astronomy should leave the skies, 
To learn her lore in ladies' eyes ! 
Oh, no ! — believe me, lovely girl, 
When Nature turns your teeth to pearl, 
Your neck to snow, your eyes to fii - e, 
Your yellow locks to golden wire, 
Then, only then, can Heaven decree, 
That you should live for only me. 

And now, my gentle hints to clear, 
For once, I'll tell you truth, my dear ! 
Whenever you may chance to meet 
A loving youth whose love is sweet, 
Long as you're false and he believes yoa, 
Long as you trust and he deceives you, 
So long the blissful bond endures ; 
And while he lies, his heart is yours ; 
But, oh ! you've wholly lost the youth 
The instant that he tells you truth ! 



WOMAN. 



Away, away, you're all the same, 
A fluttering, smiling, jilting throng ! 

Oh ! by my soul, I burn with shame, 
To think I've been your slave so long I 

Still panting o'er a crowd to reign, 
More joy it gives to woman's breast 

To make ten frigid coxcombs vain, 
Than one true manly lover blest ! 

Away, away — your smile's a curse — 
Oh ! blot me from the race of men, 

Kind, pitying Heaven ! by death or worse, 
Before I love such things again J 



A VISION OF PHILOSOPHY. 



coast, at morn, we met 
, virgin bloom 



'Twas on the Red £ 

The venerable man 

Of softness mingled with the vigorous thought 

That tower'd upon his brow ; as when we f 

The gentle moon and the full radiant sun 



' 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Shining in heaven together. When he spoke, 
'Twas language sweeten'd into song — such 

holy sounds 
As oft the spirit of the good man hears 
Prelusive to the harmony of heaven 
When death is nigh ! and still, as he unclobed 
His sacred lips, an odor all as bland 
As ocean breezes gather from the flowers 
"That blossom in Elysium, breathed around ! 
With silent awe we listen'd, while he told 
Of the dark veil which many an age had 

hung 
O'er Nature's form, till by the touch of time 
The mystic shroud grew thin and luminous, 
And half the goddess beam'd in glimpses 

through it ! 
Of magic wonders that were known and 

taught 
By him (or Cham or Zoroaster named) 
Who mused, amid the mighty cataclysm, 
O'er his rude tablets of primeval lore, 1 
Nor let the living star of science sink 
Beneath the waters which ingulf'd the 

world ! — 
Of visions, by Calliope reveal'd 
To him, 3 who traced u.pon his typic lyre 
The diapason of man's mingled frame, 
And the grand Doric heptachord of heaven! 
With all of pure, of wondrous and arcane, 
Which the grave sons of Mochus many a 

night 
Told to the young and bright-hair'd visitant 
Of Carmel's sacred mount ! 3 — Then, in a flow 
Of calmer converse, he beguiled us on 
Through many a maze of garden and of porch, 
Through many a system where the scatter'd 

light 
Of heavenly truth lay like a broken beam 
From the pure sun, which, though refracted 

all 
Into a thousand hues, is sunshine still. 



' Cham, the son of Noah, is supposed to have taken with 
him into the ark the principal doctriueB of magical, or rather 
of natural science, which he had inscribed npon some very 
durable substances, in order that they might resist the ravageB 
of the deluge, and transmit the secrets of antediluvian knowl- 
edge to his posterity. 

2 Orpheus. 

3 Pythagoras is represented in Jamblichus as descending 
with great solemnity from Mount Carmel, for which reason 
the Carmeiitcs have claimed him as one of their frateruity. 
This Mochus or Moschus, with the descendants of whom 
Pythagoras conversed in Phoenicia, and from whom he derived 
the doctrines of atomic philosophy, is supposed by some to be 
the same with Moses. 



And bright through every change !— he 

spoke of Him, 
The lone, eternal One, who dwells above, 
And of the soul's untraceable descent 
From that high fount of spirit, through the 

grades 
Of intellectual being, till it mix 
With atoms vague, corruptible, and dark : 
Nor even then, though sunk in earthly dross, 
Corrupted all, nor its ethereal touch 
Quite lost, but tasting of the fountain still ! 
As some bright river, which has roll'd along 
Through meads of flowery light and mines 

of gold, 
When pour'd at length into the dusky deep, 
Disdains to mingle with its briny taint, 
But keeps a while the pure and golden tinge, 
The balmy freshness of the fields it left ! 
And here the old man ceased — a winged train 
Of nymphs and genii led him from our eyes. 
The fair illusion fled ! and, as I waked, 
I knew my visionary soul had been 
Among that people of aerial dreams 
Who live upon the burning galaxy !' 



A BALLAD. 
THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP. 



WEITTBN AT NORFOLK, IN VTRGLNIA. 

" They tell of a young man who lost his mind upon the death 
of a girl he loved, and who, suddenly disappearing from hia 
friends, was never afterward heard of. As he had frequently 
said in his ravings, that the girl was not dead, but gone to the 
Dismal Swamp, It is supposed he had wandered into that 
dreary wilderness, and had died of hunger, or been lost in 
some of its dreadful morasses."— minora. 

" La poesie a ses monstres comme la nature."— V Alemberi. 



" They made her a grave too cold and damp 

For a soul so warm and true ; 
And she's gone to the Lake of the '. 

Swamp,' 
Where, all night long, by a fire-fly lamp, 

She paddles her white canoe. 

" And her fire-fly lamp I soon shall see, 
And her paddle I soon shall hear ; 



« According to Pythagoras, the people of dreams are souls 
collected together in the galaxy. 

6 The Great Dismal Swamp is ten or twelve miles distan, 
from Norfolk, and the lake in the middle of it (about seven 
mileB long) is called Drummond's Pond. 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Long and loving our life shall be, 
And I'll hide the maid in a cypress-tree, 
When the footstep of death is near !" 

Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds — 

His path was rugged and sore, 
Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, 
Through many a fen where the serpent feeds, 

And man never trod before ! 

And when on the earth he sunk to sleep, 

If slumber his eyelids knew, 
He lay where the deadly vine doth weep 
Its venomous tear and nightly steep 

The flesh with blistering dew ! 

And near him the she-wolf stirr'd the brake, 
And the copper-snake breathed in his ear, 
Till he starting cried, from his dream awake, 
*' Oh ! when shall I see the dusky Lake, 
And the white canoe of my dear ?" 

He saw th e Lake, and a meteor bright 

Quick over its surface play'd — 
" Welcome," he said, " my dear one's light !" 
And the dim shore echo'd for many a night 
The name of the death-cold maid ! 

Till he hollow'd a boat of the birchen bark, 

Which carried him off from the shore ; 
Far he follow'd the meteor spark, 
The wind was high and the clouds were dark, 
And the boat return'd no more. 

But oft from the Indian hunter's camp, 

This lover and maid so true 
Are seen at the hour of midnight damp, 
To cross the Lake by a fire-fly lamp, 

And paddle their white canoe ! 



AT NIGHT. 

These lines allude to a carious lamp, which has for its de 
Ticea Cupid, with the words " At Night" written oiser him. 

At night, when all is still around, 
How sweet to hear the distant sound 
Of footstep, coming soft and light ! 
What pleasure in the anxious beat 



With which the bosom flies to meet 
That foot that comes so soft at night ! 

And then, at night, how sweet to say 
" 'Tis late, my love !" and chide delay, 

Though still the western clouds are bright ; 
Oh ! happy, too, the silent press, 
The eloquence of mute caress, 

With those we love exchanged at night ! 



ODES TO NBA. 

WRITTEN AT BERMUDA. 



THE SNOW-SPIRIT. 

No, ne'er did the wave in its element steep 

An island of lovelier charms ; 
It blooms in the giant embrace of the deep, 

Like Hebe in Hercules' arms ! 
The tint of your bowers is balm to the eye, 

Their melody balm to the ear ; 
But the fiery planet of day is too nigh, 

And the Snow-Spirit never comes here ! 

The down from his wing is as white as the 
pearl 
Thy lips for their cabinet stole, 
And it falls on the green earth as melting, 
my girl, 
As a murmur of thine on the soul ! 
Oh ! fly to the clime where he pillows the 
death 
As he cradles the birth of the year ; 
Bright are your bowers and balmy their 
breath, 
But the Snow-Spirit cannot come here ! 

How sweet to behold him, when borne on 
the gale, 

And brightening the bosom of morn, 
He flings, like the priest of Diana, a veil 

O'er the brow of each virginal thorn ! 
Yet think not, the veil he so chillingly casts, 

Is the veil of a vestal severe; 
No, no, thou wilt see, what a moment it lasis, 

Should the Snow-Spirit ever come here 






POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



But fly to his region — lay open thy zone, 

And he'll weep all his brilliancy dim, 
To think that a bosom as white as his own 

Should not melt in the day-beam like him ' 
Oh ! lovely the print of those delicate feet 

O'er his luminous path will appear — 
Ply ! my beloved ! this island is sweet, 

But the Snow-Spirit cannot come here ! 



There's not a look, a word of thine 

My soul has e'er forgot ; 
Thou ne'er hast bid a ringlet shine, 
Nor given thy locks one graceful twine 

Which I remember not ! 

There never yet a murmur fell 
From that beguiling tongue, 
Which did not, with a lingering spell, 
Upon my charmed senses dwell, 
Like something heaven had sung. 

Ah ! that I could, at once, forget 

All, all that haunts me so — 
And yet, thou witching girl ! — and yet 
To die were sweeter than to let 
The loved remembrance go ! 

No ; if this slighted heart must see 

Its faithful pulse decay, 
Oh ! let it die, remembering thee, 
And, like the burnt aroma, be 

Consumed in sweets away ! 



LINES, 

WRITTEN IN A STORM AT SEA. 

Oh ! there's a holy calm profound 
In awe like this, that ne'er was given 

To rapture's thrill ; 
Tis as a solemn voice from heaven, 
And the soul, listening to the sound, 

Lies mute and still ! 



'Tis true, it talks of danger nigh, 

Of slumbering with the dead to-morrow 

In the cold deep, 
Where pleasure's throb or tears of sorrow 
No more shall wake the heart or eye, 

But all must sleep ! 

Well ! — there are some, thou stormy bed, 
To whom thy sleep would be a treasure ; 

Oh ! most to him 
Whose lip hath drain'd life's cup of pleasure, 
Nor left one honey-drop to shed 

Round misery's brim. 

Yes — he can smile serene at death : 

Kind Heaven ! do thou but chase the weeping 

Of friends who love him ; 
Tell them that he lies calmly sleeping 
Where sorrow's sting or envy's breath 

No more shall move him. 



THE STEERSMAN'S SONG. 



When freshly blows the northern gale, 

And under courses snug we fly ; 
When lighter breezes swell the sail, 

And royals proudly sweep the sky ; 
'Longside the wheel, unwearied still 

I stand, and as my watchful eye 
Doth mark the needle's faithful thrill, 

I think of her I love, and cry, 

Port, my boy ! port. 

When calms delay, or breezes blow 

Right from the point we wish to steer , 
When by the wind close-haul'd we go, 

And strive in vain the port to near; 
I think 'tis thus the fates defer 

My bliss with one that's far away, 
And while remembrance springs to her, 

I watch the sails, and sighing say, 
Thus, my boy ! thus. 

But see, the wind draws kindly aft ; 

All hands are up the yards to square, 
And now the floating stu'n-sails waft 

Our stately ship through waves and air. 



rOEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



171 



Oh ! then I think that yet for me 

Some breeze of fortune thus may spring, 

Some breeze to waft me, love, to thee ! 
And in that hope I smiling sing, 
Steady, boy ! so. 



LINES, 

LEAVING PHILADELPHIA. 



Axons by the Schuylkill a wanderer roved, 
And bright were its flowery banks to his 
eye; 
But far, very far were the friends that he 
loved, 
And he gazed on its flowery banks with a 
sigh! 

O Nature ! though blessed and bright are 
thy rays, 
O'er the brow of creation enchantingly 
thrown, 
Yet faint are they all to the lustre that plays 
In a smile from the heart that is dearly 
our own ! 

ft or long did the soul of the stranger remain 
Unblest by the smile he had languish'd to 
meet; 
Though scarce did he hope it would soothe 
him again, 
Till the threshold of home had been kiss'd 
by his feet ! 

But the lays of his boyhood had stolen to 
their ear, 
And they loved what they knew of so 
humble a name, 
And they told him, with flattery welcome 
and dear, 
That they found in his heart something 
sweeter than fame. 

Nor did woman — O woman ! whose form 
and whose soul 
Are the spell and the light of each path 
we pursue ; 



Whether sunn'd , in the tropics or chill'd at 
the pole, 
If woman be there, there is happiness too J 

Nor did she her enamoring magic deny, 
That magic his heart had relinquish'd so 
long, 
Like eyes he had loved was her eloquent eye 
Like them did it soften and weep at his 
song! 

Oh ! blest be the tear, and in memory oft 
May its sparkle be shed o'er his wandering 
dream ! 
Oh ! blest be that eye, and may passion as 
soft, 
As free from a pang, ever mellow its beam ! 

The stranger is gone — but he will not forget, 
When at home he shall talk of the toil he 
has known, 
To tell, with a sigh, what endearments he met, 
As he stray'd by the wave of the Schuyl- 
kill alone ! 



LINES, 

WRITTEN AT THE COHOS, OK FALL OP THE 
MOHAWK RIVER. 

From rise of morn till set of sun 
I've seen the mighty Mohawk run, 
And as I mark'd the woods of pine 
Along his mirror darkly shine, 
Like tall and gloomy forms that pass 
Before the wizard's midnight glass ; 
And as I view'd the hurrying pace 
With which he ran his turbid race, 
Rushing, alike untired and wild, 
Through shades that frown'd and flower* 

that smiled, 
Flying by every green recess 
That woo'd him to its calm caress, 
Yet sometimes turning with the wiu-J. 
As if to leave one look behind ! 
Oh ! I have thought, and thinking sigh'd— 
How like to thee, thou heartless tide, 
May be the lot, the life of him, 
Who roams along thy water's brim ! 



172 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Through what alternate shades of woe 
And flowers of joy my path may go ; 
How many an humble, still retreat 
May rise to court my weary feet, 
While still pursuing, still unblest, 
I wander on, nor dare to rest ! 
But urgent as the doom that calls 
Thy water to its destined falls, 
I see the world's bewildering force 
Hurry my heart's devoted course 
From lapse to lapse, till life be done, 
And the lost current cease to run ! 
May heaven's forgiving rainbow shine 
Upon the mist that circles me, 
As soft as now it hangs o'er thee ! 



BALLAD STANZAS. 

I Efiw by the smoke that so gracefully 
curl'd 
Above the green elms, that a cottage was 
near, 
And I said, " If there's peace to be found in 
the world, 
A heart that is humble might hope for it 
here !" 

It was noon, and on flowers that languish'd 
around 
In silence reposed the voluptuous bee ; 
Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a 
sound 
But the woodpecker tapping the hollow 
beech-tree. 

And " Here in this lone little wood," I ex- 
claim'd, 
" With a maid who was lovely to soul and 
to eye, 
Who would blush when I praised her, and 
weep if I blamed, 
How blest could I live, and how calm 
could I die ! 

" By the shade of yon sumach, whose red 
berry dips 
In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to 
recline. 



And to know that I sigh'd upon innocent 
lips, 
Which had never been sigh'd on by any 
but mine !" 



A CANADIAN BOAT-SONG. 

WRITTEN ON THE RIVER ST. LAWRENCE. 

Faintly as tolls the evening chime, 
Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time. 
Soon as the woods on shore lock dim, 
We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn. 
Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, 
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past ! 

Why should we yet our sail unfurl ? 
There is not a breath the blue wave to curl! 
But when the wind blows off the shore, 
Oh ! sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. 
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, 
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past ! 

Utawas tide ! this trembling moon 
Shall see us float over thy surges soon. 
Saint of this green isle ! hear our prayers, 
Oh ! grant us cool heavens and favoring airs. 
Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, 
The rapids are near, and the daylight's past f 



BLACK AND BLUE EYES. 

The brilliant black eye 

May in triumph let fly 
All its darts without caring who feels 'em ; 

But the soft eye of blue, 

Though it scatter wounds too, 
Is much better pleased when it heals 'em ' 

Dear Fanny ! 

The soft eye of blue, 

Though it scatter wounds too, 
Is much better pleased when it heals 'em. 

The black eye may say, 
" Come and worship my ray — 
" By adoring, perhaps, you may move me 1* 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



But the blue eye, half hid, 


So well she checks their wanderings, 


Says, from under its lid — 


So peacefully she pairs 'em, 


" I love, and am yours, if you love me 1" 


That Love with her ne'er thinks of wings, 


Dear Fanny ! 


And Time forever wears 'em. 


The blue eye, half hid, 


This is Time's holiday ; 


Says, from under its lid — 


Oh, how he flies away ! 


" I love, and am yours, if you love me !" 




Then tell me, oh, why, 





In that lovely blue eye, 




Not a charm of its tint I discover ; 


DEAR FANNY. 


Or why should you wear 




The only blue pair 


" She has beauty, but still you must keep 


That ever said " No" to a lover ? 


your heart cool ; 


Dear Fanny ! 


She has wit, but you mustn't be caught 


Oh, why should you wear 


so:" 


The only blue pair 


Thus Reason advises, but Reason's a fool, 


That ever said " No" to a lover ? 


And 'tis not the first time I have thought 
so; 
Dear Fanny, 






'Tis not the first time I have thought so. 
" She is lovely ; then love her, nor let the 




LOVE AND TIME. 


bliss fly ; 




'Tis the charm of youth's vanishing sea- 


Tis said — but whether true or not 


son :" 


Let bards declare who've seen 'em — 


Thus Love has advised me, and who will deny 
That Love reasons much better than Rea- 


That Love and Time have only got 


One pair of wings between 'em. 


son ? 


In courtship's first delicious hour, 


Dear Fanny, 


The boy full well can spare 'em ; 


Love reasons much better than Reason. 


So, loitering in his lady's bower, 




He lets the gray-beard wear 'em. 




Then is Time's hour of play; 




Oh, how he flies away ! 






FROM LIFE WITHOUT FREEDOM. 


But short the moments, short as bright, 




When he the wings can borrow ; 


Feom life without freedom, oh, who would 


If Time to-day has had its flight, 


not fly 1 


Love takes his turn to-morrow. 


For one day of freedom, oh ! who would not 


Ah ! Time and Love, your change is then 


die? 


The saddest and most trying, 


Hark ! hark ! 'tis the trumpet ! the call of 


When one begins to limp again, 


the brave, 


And t'other takes to flying. 


The death-song of tyrants, and dirge of the 


Then is Love's hour to stray ; 


slave. 


Oh, how he flies away ! 


Our eountry lies bleeding — oh, fly to her aid ; 




One arm that defends is worth hosts that 


But there's a nymph, whose chains I feel 


invade. 


And bless the silken fetter, 




Who knows, the dear one, how to deal 


In death's kindly bosom our last hope re- 


With Love and Time much better. 


mains — 



174 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE 



The dead fear no tyrants, the grave has no 


Every flower of life declineth, 


chains. 


Wearily, oh ! wearily, oh ! 


On, on to the combat ; the heroes that bleed 




For virtue and mankind are heroes indeed. 


Cheerily then from hill and valley, 


And oh, even if freedom from this world be 


Cheerily, oh ! 


driven, 


Like your native fountains sally, 


Despair not — at least we shall find her in 


Cheerily, oh ! 


heaven. 


If a glorious death, 




Won by bravery, 




Sweeter be than breath 




Sigh'd in slavery, 




Round the flag of freedom rally, 


MERRILY EVERT BOSOM BOHNDETH. 


Cheerily, oh ! cheerily, oh ! 


THE TTROLHSB SONG OP LIBERTY. 




Merrily every bosom boundeth, 





Merrily, oh ! 




Where the song of freedom soundeth, 


SIGH NOT THUS. 


Merrily, oh ! 




There the warrior's arms 


Sigh not thus, oh, simple boy, 


Shed more splendor ; 


Nor for woman languish ; 


There the maiden's charms 


Loving cannot boast a joy 


Shine more tender ; 


Worth one hour of anguish. 


Every joy the land surroundeth, 


Moons have faded fast away, 


Merrily, oh ! merrily, oh ! 


Stars have ceased their shining j 




Woman's love, as bright as they, 


Wearily every bosom pineth, 


Feels as quick declining. 


Wearily, oh ! 




Where the bond of slavery twineth, 


Then, love, vanish hence, 


Wearily, oh ! 


Fye, boy, banish hence 


There the wai-rior's dart 


Melancholy thoughts of Cupid's lore, 


Hath no fleetuess ; 


Hours soon fly away, 


There the maiden's heart 


Charms soon die away, 


Hath no sweetness — 


Then the silly dream of the heart is o'er. 



gntxtft £0wg0 



THOU AKT, O GOD. 

"The day is thine, the night also is thine: thon hast pre- 
pared tne light and the sun. Thon hast set all the borders 
ol the earth: thou hast made summer and winter."— Psalm 
lxxiv. 16, H. 

Thou art, O God, the life and light 
Of all this wondrous world we see ; 

Its glow by day, its smile by night, 
Are but reflections caught from Thee. 

Where'er we turn thy glories shine, 

And all things fair and bright are Thine ! 

When day, with farewell beam, delays 
Among the op'ning clouds of even, 

And we can almost think we gaze 
Through golden vistas into heaven — 

Those hues that made the sun's decline 

So soft, so radiant, Lord ! are Thine ! 

When night, with wings of starry gloom, 
O'ershadows all the earth and skies, 

Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume 
Is sparkling with unnumber'd eyes — 

That sacred gloom, those fires divine, 

So grand, so countless, Lord ! are Thine. 

When youthful spring around us breathes, 
Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh ; 

And every flower the summer wreathes 
Is born beneath that kindling eye. 

Where'er we turn, Thy glories shine, 

And all things fair and bright are Thine 1 



THE BIRD LET LOOSE. 

The bird let loose' in eastern skies,* 
When hast'ning fondly home, 

Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies 
Where idle warblers roam. 



1 The carrier-pigeon, it is well known, flies at an elevated 
pitch, in order to surmount every obstacle between her and 
the place to which she is destined. 



But high she shoots through air and light, 

Above all low delay, 
Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, 

Nor shadow dims her way. 

So grant me, God, from every care 

And stain of passion free, 
Aloft, through Virtue's purer air, 

To hold my course to Thee ! 
No sin to cloud, no lure to stay 

My soul, as home she springs; — 
Thy sunshine on her joyful way, 

Thy freedom in her wings. 



FALLEN IS THY THRONE. 

Fallen is thy throne, O Israel ! 

Silence is o'er thy plains ; 
Thy dwellings all lie desolate, 

Thy children weep in chains ! 
Where are the dews that fed thee 

On Etham's barren shore ? 
That fire from heaven which led thee, 

Now lights thy path no more. 

Lord ! thou didst love Jerusalem — 

Once she was all Thy own ; 
Her love Thy fairest heritage,' 

Her power Tby glory's throne,* 
Till evil came and blighted 

Thy long-loved olive-tree ;' — 
And Salem's shrines were lighted 

For other gods than Thee. 

Then sunk the star of Solyma — 
Then pass'd her glory's day, 



I have left mine heritage; I have given the dearly be- 
loved of my soul into the hand of her enemies."— Jer. xli. 7. 
Do not disgrace the throne of thy glory."— Jer. xiv. SI 
The Lord called thy name a green olive-tree ; lair and "> 
goodly fruit,-' &c.—Jer. zi. 16 



I'OEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Like heath that in the wilderness' 
The wild wind whirls away. 

Silent and waste her bowers, 
Where once the mighty trod, 

And sunk those guilty towers, 
Where Baal reign'd as God. 

1 Go" — said the Lord — " ye conquerors ! 

Steep in her blood your swords, 
And raze to earth her battlements," 

For they are not the Lord's. 
Till Zion's mournful daughter 

O'er kindred bones shall tread, 
And Hinnom's vale of slaughter' 

Shall hide but half her dead !" 



O THOU WHO DRY'ST THE MOURN- 
ER'S TEAR 



O Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear, 

How dark this world would be, 
If, when deceived and wounded here, 

We could' not fly to Thee ! 
The friends who in our sunshine live, 

When winter comes, are flown; 
And he who has but tears to give, 

Must weep those tears alone. 
But Thou wilt heal that broken heart, 

Which, like the plants that throw 
Their fragrance from the wounded part, 

Breathes sweetness out of woe. 

When joy no longer soothes or cheers, 

And even the hope that threw 
A moment's sparkle o'er our tears 

Is dimm'd and vanish'd too, 
Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom, 

Did not Thy wing of love 
Come, brightly wafting through the gloom 

Our Peace-branch from 



i "For he shall be like the heath in the desert."— Jer. 
xvii. 6. 

2 " Take away her battlements ; for they are not the Lord's." 
-Jer. v. 10. 

» " Therefore, behold, the days come, saith the Lord, that it 
ihall no more be called Tophet, nor the Valley of the Son of 
Himioro. hut the Valley of Slaughter ; for they shall bury in 
Tophet till *.herc be no place."— Jer. vii. 32. 



Then sorrow, touch'd by Thee, grows 
With more than rapture's ray ; 

As darkness shows us worlds of light 
We never saw by day ! 



bright 



BUT WHO SHALL SEE. 

But who shall see the glorious day 

When, throned on Zion's brow, 
The Lord shall rend that veil away 

Which hides the nations now ?' 
When earth no more beneath the fear 

Of His rebuke shall lie ! 6 
When pain shall cease, and every tear 

Be wiped from every eye. c 

Then, Judah, thou no more shalt mourn 

Beneath the heathen's chain ; 
Thy days of splendor shall return, 

And all be new again. 7 
The fount of life shall then be quaff'd 

In peace by all who come ; 8 
And every wind that blows shall waft 

Some long-lost exile home. 



THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING 
SHOW. 

This world is all a fleeting show, 

For man's illusion given ; 
The smiles of joy, the tears of woe, 
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow — 

There's nothing true but Heaven ! 

And false the light on glory's plume, 

As fading hues of even ! 
And love and hope and beauty's bloom 
Are blossoms gather'd for the tomb — 

There's nothing bright but Heaven ! 



• " And he will destroy in this mountain the face of the cov- 
ering cast over all people, and the veil that is spread over all 
nations."— Isa. xxv. 7. 

» " The rebuke of his people shall he take away from off all 
the earth/Vita- xxv. 8. -i 

• "And God shall wipe away air tears from their eyes; 
neither shall there be any more pain."— Bev. xxi. 4. 

' " And he that sat upon the throne said, Behold, I make 
all things new."— Rev. xxi. 5. 

• "And whosoever will, let him take the water of life 
freely."— Rev. xxii. 17. , , 



POEMS OF THOMAS MOORE. 



Poor wand'rers of a stormy day ! 

From wave to wave we're driven, 
And fancy's flash and reason's ray 
Serve but to light the troubled way- 

There's nothing calm but Heaven ! 



ALMIGHTY GOD! 

CHORUS OF PRIESTS. 

Almighty God ! when round Thy shrme 
The palm-tree's heavenly branch we twine, 1 
(Emblem of life's eternal ray, 
And love that " fadeth not away,") 
We bless the flowers, expanded all," 
We bless the leaves that never fall, 
And trembling say — " In Eden thus 
The tree of life may flower for us !" 

When round Thy cherubs — smiling calm, 
Without their flames 3 — we wreathe the palm, 
O God ! we feel the emblem true — 
Thy mercy is eternal too. 
Those cherubs, with their smiling eyes, 
That crown of palm which never dies, 
Are but t-he types of Thee above — 
Eternal Life, and Peace, and Love ! 



SOUND THE LOUD TIMBREL. 

MIRIAM'S SONG. 

"Ana Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a 
timbrel in her hand ; and all the women went out after her 
with timbrels and with dances."— Exod. XT. 20. 

Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea! 

Jehovah has triumph'd — His people are free ! 

Sing — for the pride of the tyrant is broken, 

His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid 

and brave — 



1 "The Scriptures having declared that the Temple of Jeru- 
salem was a type of the Messiah, it is natural to conclude that 
the Palms, which made so conspicuous a figure in that struc- 
ture, represented that Life and Immortality which were 
Drought to light by the Gospel."— Observations on the Palm, as 
a sacred Emblem, by W. Ticjhe. 

s " And he carved all the walls of the house round about 
with carved figures of cherubims, and palm-trees, and open 
towers''— 1 Kings, vi. 29. 

, ' "When the passover of the tabernacles was revealed to 
the great lawgiver on the mount, then the cherubic images 
which appeared in that structure were no longer surrounded 
by flames ; for the tabernacle was a type of the dispensation 
of mercy, by which Jehovah confirmed His graci 
*o redeem mankind." — Observations on Hie Palm 



How vain was their boasting, the Lord hath 

but spoken, 

And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the 

wave. 

Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ; 

Jehovah has triumph'd — His people are free ! 

Praise to the conqueror, praise to the Lord ! 
His word was our arrow, His breath was our 

sword. 
Who shall return to tell Egypt the story 
Of those she sent forth in the hour of her 

pride ? 
For the Lord hath look'd out from his pillar 

of glory,* 
And all her brave thousands are dash'd in 

the tide. 
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ! 
Jehovah has triumph'd — His people are free ! 



O FAIR ! O PUREST ! 

SAINT AUGUSTINE TO HIS SISTER.* 

O fair ! O purest ! be thou the dove 
That flies alone to some sunny grove, 
And lives unseen, and bathes her wing, 
All vestal white, in the limpid spring : 
There, if the hovering hawk be near, 
That limpid spring in its mirror clear 
Reflects him, ere he can reach his prey, 
And warns the timorous bird away. 

Oh, be like this dove ; 
O fair ! O purest ! be like this dove. 

The sacred pages of God's own Book 
Shall be the spring, the eternal brook, 
In whose holy mirror, night and day, 
Thou'lt study Heaven's reflected ray ; — 
And should the foes of virtue dare, 
With gloomy wing, to seek \ee there, ' 

Thou wilt see how dark their shadows lie 
Between Heaven and thee, and trembling fly ! 

Oh, be like this dove ; 
O fair ! O purest ! be like this dove. 



* "And it came to pass, that in the morning watch the Lor* 
looked unto the host of the Egyptians through the pillar of fin 
and of the cloud, and troubled the host of the Egyptians."— 
Esrod. xiv. 24. 

» In St. Augustine's Treatise upon the Advantages of a Soli- 
tary Life, addressed to his sister, there is a passage from whick 
the thought of this song waB taken. 



THE POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 



THE ANGEL'S WHISPER.' 

[A smpers titlon of great beauty prevails in Ireland, that wnen 
• child smiles in its sleep, it is " talking with angels."] 

A baby was sleeping, 
Its mother was weeping, 
For her husband was far on the wild raging 
sea; 
And the tempest was swelling 
Round the fisherman's dwelling, 
And she cried, "Dermot, darling, oh come 
back to me !" 

Her beads while she number'd, 

The baby still slumber'd, 
And smiled in her face as she bended her knee; 

" Oh blest be that warning, 

My child, thy sleep adorning, 
For I know that the angels are whispering 
with th^e. 

" And while they are keeping 
Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, 



1 The beautiful superstition on which this song has been 
, has an Oriental as well as a Western prevalence ; and, 
probability reached the Irish by being borrowed from 
Amongst the Babbinical traditions which 
r the Jews, is the belief, that before the crea- 
tion of Eve, another companion was assigned to Adam in Para- 
dise, who bore the name of Lilith. But proving arrogant and 
disposed to contend for superiority, a quarrel ensued ; Lilith 
pronounced the name of Jehovih, which it is forbidden to utter, 
and fled to conceal herself in tne sea. Three angels, Sennoi, 
Sansennoi, and SammangeJojth, were despatched by the Lord 
of the Universe toonmpelher to return ; but on her obstinate 
refusal, she was transformed into a demon, whose delight is in 
debilitating and destroying infants. On condition that she was 
not to be forced to go back to Paradise, she bound herself by 
an oath to retrain from in,tnring such children as might be pro- 
tected by having iasoubrd on them the name of the mediating 
angels— hence the svac'ice of the Eastern Jews to write the 
names of Sennoi, baosennoi, and Sammangeloph, on slips of 
paper and bind Jiern on their infants to protect them from 
Lilith. The r.eory will be fonnd in Buitokf's Synagoga 
JudaUa. en. iv. p. 81 ; and in Bkh Sou, as edited by Babto- 
iaoci, In tUe first volume of his, BWictfupuBaMnua, p. 69. 

Ba«4 Harjraelech, a Rabbinical writer, quoted by Stehk- 
ux, says, " when a esffld laugh) in if *Uep, in the night of the 
noon, that Lilith laughs and toys with It, 



Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with mei 
And say thou wouldst rather 
They'd wat«h o'er thy father ! — 

For I know that the angels are whispering 
with thee." 

The dawn of the morning 
Saw Dermot returning, 
And the wife wept with joy her babe's 
father to see ; 
And closely caressing 
Her child, with a blessing, 
Said, " I knew that the angels where whis- 
pering with thee." 



THE FAIRY BOY. 



[When a beautiful child pines and diet, the Irish 
lieves the healthy infant has been stolen by the fa 
sickly elf left in its place.] 



A mother came when stars were paling, 

"Wailing round a lonely spring ; 
Thus she cried, while tears were falling, 

Calling on the Fairy King : 
" Why, with spells my child caressing, 

Courting him with fairy joy, 
Why destroy a mother's blessing, — 

Wherefore steal my baby-boy ? 

" O'er the mountain, through the wild-wood, 
Where his childhood loved to play, 

Where the flowers are freshly springing, 
There I wander day by day ; 



and that it is proper for the mother, or any one that sees the 
infant laugh, to tap it on the nose, and say ' Lilith, begone t 
thy abode is not here.' This shonld be said three times, sad 
each repetition accompanied by a gentle tap." See ASat'i At- 
count ofthi Traditions, Bitot, and CtrmenUt tfOu Jtm, eh. 
x. p. 16S-«— ch. xvi. p. 391. 



180 



"OExMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 



There I wander, growing fonder 
Of the child that made my joy, 

On the echoes wildly calling 
To restore my fairy boy. 

"But in vain my plaintive calling, — 

Tears are falling all in vain, — 
He now sports with fairy pleasure, 

He's the treasure of their train ! 
Fare thee well ! my child, forever, 

In this world I've lost my joy, 
But in the next we ne'er shall sever, 

There I'll find my angel boy." 



TRUE LOVE CAN NE'ER FORGET. 

[It Is related of Carolan, the Irish bard, that when deprived 
of sight, and after a lapse of twenty years, he recognised hie 
first love by the touch of her hand. The lady's name was 
Bridget Cruise ; and though not a pretty name, it deserves to 
be recorded, as belonging to the woman who could inspire 
inch a passion.] 

" True love can ne'er forget ; 
Fondly as when we met, 
Dearest, I love thee yet, 

My darling one !" 
Thus sung a minstrel gray 
His sweet impassion'd lay, 
Down by the Ocean's spray, 

At set of sun. 
But wither'd was the minstrel's sight, 
Morn to him was dark as night, 
Yet his heart was full of light, 

As thus the lay begun : 
" True love can ne'er forget ; 
Fondly as when we met, 
Dearest, I love thee yet, 

My darling one !" 

" Long years are past and o'er, 
Since from this fatal shore 
Cold hearts and cold winds bore 

My love from me." 
Scarcely the minstrel spoke, 
When forth, with flashing stroke, 
A boat's light oar the silence broke, 
. . . . Oyer the sea. 
Soon upon her native strand 
Doth a lovely lady land, 



While the minstrel's love-taught hand 
Did o'er his wild harp run : 

" True love can ne'er forget ; 

Fondly as when we met, 

Dearest, I love thee yet, 
My darling one !" 

"Where the minstrel sat alone, 
There that lady fair had gone, 
Within his hand she placed her own. 

The bard dropp'd on his knee ; 
From his lips soft blessings came, 
He kiss'd her hand with truest flame, 
In trembling tones he named — her name, 

Though her he could not see ; 
But oh ! — the touch the bard could tell 
Of that dear hand, remember'd well. 
Ah ! — by many a secret spell 

Can true love find his own ; 
For true love can ne'er forget ; 
Fondly as when they met, 
He loved his lady yet, 

His darling one ! 



NYMPH OF NIAGARA. 

Nymph of Niagara ! Sprite of the mist ! 
With a wild magic my brow thou hast kiss'd j 
I am thy slave, and my mistress art thou, 
For thy wild kiss of magic is yet on my brow. 1 

I feel it as first when I knelt before thee, 
With thy emerald robe flowing brightly and 

free, 3 
Fringed with the spray-pearls, and floating 

in mist — 
Thus 'twas my brow with wild magic you 

kiss'd. 

Thine am I still ; — and I'll never forget 
The moment the spell on my spirit was set ; — 
Thy chain but a foam-wreath — yet stronger 

by far 
Than the manacle, steel- wrought, for captive 

of war ; 



• Written immediately after leaving the Falls. 

• The water in. the centre of the great fall in intensely green 
and of gem- like brilliancy. 



POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 



For the steel it will rust, and the war will be 

o'er, 
And the manacled captive be free as before ; 
While the foam-wreath will bind me forever 

to thee ! — 
I love the enslavement — and would not be 

free! 

Nymph of Niagara ! play with the breeze, 
Sport with the fauns 'mid the old forest trees ; 
Blush into rainbows at kiss of the sun, 
From the gleam of his dawn till his bright 
course be run ; 

I'll not be jealous — for pure is thy sporting, 
Heaven-born is all that around thee is court- 
ing— 
Still will I love thee, sweet Sprite of the mist, 
As first when my brow with wild magic you 
kiss'd ! 



HOW TO ASK AND HAVE. 

* Oh, 'tis time I should talk to your mother, 

Sweet Mary," says I ; 
" Oh, don't talk to my mother," says Mary, 

Beginning to cry : 
"For my mother says men are deceivers, 

And never, I know, will consent ; 
She says girls in a hurry who marry 

At leisure repent." 

" Then, suppose I would talk to your father, 

Sweet Mary," says I ; 
" Oh, don't talk to my father," says Mary, 

Beginning to cry : 
" For my father, he loves me so dearly, 

He'll never consent I should go — 
If -you talk to my father," says Mary, 

" He'll surely say ' No.' " 



" Then how .ihall I get you, my jewel ? 

Sweet Mary," says I ; 
"If your father and mother's so cruel, 

Most surely I'll die !" 
" Oh, never say die, dear," says Mary ; 

"A way now to save you, I see : 
Since my parents are both so contrary — 

Vou'd better ask me." 



THE LAND OF THE WEST. 

Oh ! come to the West, love, — oh, come 

there with me ; 
'Tis a sweet land of verdure that springs 

from the sea, 
Where fair plenty smiles from her emerald 

throne ; 
Oh, come to the West, and I'll make thee 

my own ! 
I'll guard thee, I'll tend thee, I'll love thee 

the best, 
And you'll say there's no land like the land 

of the West. 

The South has its roses and bright skies of 

blue, 
But ours are more sweet with love's own 

changeful hue — 
Half sunshine, half tears, — like the girl I 

love best, 
Oh ! what is the South tq the beautiful West ! 
Then come to the West, and the rose on thy 

mouth 
Will be sweeter to me than the flowers of the 

South ! 

The North has its snow-towers of dazzling 

array, 
All sparkling with gems in the ne'er-setting 

day ; 
There the Storm-King may dwell in the halls 

he loves best, 
But the soft-breathing Zephyr he plays in 

the West. 
Then come there with me, where no cold 

wind doth blow, 
And thy neck will seem fairer to me than the 

snow! 

The Sun in the gorgeous East chaseth the 

night 
When he riseth, refresh'd, in his glory and 

might. 
But where doth he go when he seeks his 

sweet rest ? 
Oh ! doth he not haste to the beautiful West ? 
Then come there with me : 'tis the land I 

love best, 
'Tis the land of my sires ! — 'tis my own dar 

ling West ! 



182 



POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 



SWEET HARP OF THE DAYS THAT 
ARE GONE. 

TO THE IRISH HARP. 

Oh, give me one strain 
Of that wild harp again, 

In melody proudly its own ! 
Sweet harp of the days that are gone 1 
Time's wide-wasting wing 
Its cold shadow may fling 

Where the light of the soul hath no 
part; 
The sceptre and sword 
Both decay with their lord — 

But the throne of the bard, is the heart. 

And hearts, while they beat 
To thy music so sweet, 

Thy glories will ever prolong, 
Land of honor and beauty and song ! 
The beauty, whose sway 
Woke the bard's votive lay, 

Hath gone to eternity's shade, 
While, fresh in its fame, 
Lives the song to her name, 

Which the minstrel immortal hath 
made! 



YIELD NOT, THOU SAD ONE, TO 
SIGHS. 

Oh yield not, thou sad one, to sighs, 

Nor murmur at Destiny's will. 
Behold, for each pleasure that flies, 

Another replacing it still. 
Time's wing, were it all of one feather, 

Far slower would be in its flight ; 
The storm gives a charm to fine weather, 

And day would seem dark without night. 
Then yield not, thou sad one, to sighs. 

When we look on some lake that repeats 
The loveliness bounding its shore, 

A breese o'er the soft surface fleets, 
And the mirror-like beauty is o'er : — 

But the breeze, ere it ruffled the deep, 
Pervading the odorous bowers, 

Awaken'd the flowers from their sleep, 



And wafted their sweets to be ours. 

Then yield not, thou sad one, to sighs. 

Oh, blame not the change nor the flight 

Of our joys as they're passing away, 
'Tis the swiftness and change give delight — 

They would pall if permitted to stay. 
More gayly they glitter in flying, 

They perish in lustre still bright, 
Like the hues of the dolphin, in dying, 

Or humming-bird 8 wing in its flight. 

Then yield not, thou sad one, to sighs. 



WIDOW MACHREE. 

Widow Machree, it's no wonder you frown, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree; 
Faith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty 
black gown, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree; 
How alter'd your air, 
With that close cap you wear — 
'Tis destroying your hair, 

Which should be flowing free ; 
Be no longer a churl 
Of its black silken curl, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree ! 

Widow Machree, now the summer is come, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree : 
When everything smiles, should a beauty 
look glum ? 

Och hone ! Widow Machree. 
See the birds go in pairs, 
And the rabbits and hares — 
Why even the bears 

Now in couples agree ; 
And the mute little fish, 
Though they can't spake, they wish, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree. 

Widow Machree, and when winter comes in, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree, 
To be poking the fire all alone is a sin, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree ; 
Sure the shovel and tongs 
To each other belongs, 
And the kettle sings songs 



! 



r 



POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 



Full of family glee ; 
While alone with your cup, 
Like a hermit, you sup, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree. 

And how do you know, with the comforts 
I've towld, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree, 
But you're keeping some poor fellow out in 
the cowld ? 

Och hone ! Widow Machree. 
With such sins on your head 
Sure your peace would be fled ; 
Could you sleep in your bed 

Without thinking to see 
Some ghost or some sprite, 
That would wake you each night, 

Crying, " Och hone ! Widow Machree ?" 

Then take my advice, darling Widow Ma- 
chree, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree. 
And with my advice, faith I wish you'd take 
me, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree. 
You'd have me to desire, 
Then to sit by the fire, 
And sure Hope is no liar 

In whispering to me, 
That the ghosts would depart, 
When you'd me near your heart, 

Och hone ! Widow Machree. 



MOLLY BAWN. 

O I Molly Bawn, why leave me pining, 

All lonely waiting here for you ? 
The stars above are brightly shining 

Because — they've nothing else to do. 
The flowers, late, were open keeping, 

To try a rival blush with you, 
But their mother, Nature, set them sleeping, 

With their rosy faces wash'd — with dew. 
! Molly, &c. 

Now the pretty flowers were made to bloom, 

dear, > 

And the pretty stars were made to shine, 

And the pretty girls were made for the boys, 

dear, 

And maybe you were made for mine ! 



The wicked watch-dog here is snarling — 
He takes me for a thief, you see ; 

For he knows I'd steal you, Molly darling- 
And then transported I sbould be. 

O ! Molly, <fc& 



MOTHER, HE'S GOING AWAY. 

Mother. 
Now what are you crying for, Nelly? 

Don't be blubbering there like a fool ; 
With the weight o' the grief, faith, I tell you 

You'll break down the three-legged stooL 
I suppose now you're crying for Barney, 

But don't b'lieve a word that he'd say, 
He tells nothing but big lies and blarney, — 

Sure you know how he sarved poor Rats 
Karney. 

Daughter. 
But, mother ! 

Mother. 
Oh, bother ! 

Daughter. 
Oh, mother, he's going away, 

And I dreamt the other night 
Of his ghost — all in white f 

[Mother speaks in an undertone. 
The dirty blackguard !] 

Daughter. 
Oh, mother, he's going away. 

Mother. 
If he's going away all the betther, — 

Blessed hour when he's out o' your sight 
There's one comfort — you can't get a letther— 

For yiz 1 neither can read nor can write. 
Sure, 'twas only last week you protested, 

Since he coorted fat Jinney M'Cray, 
That the sight o' the scamp you detested — 

With abuse sure your tongue nevei 
rested — 



- 



184 



POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 



Daughter. 
But, mother ! 

Mother. 
Oh, bother! 

Daughter. 
Oh, mother, he's going away ! 

[Mother, speaking again with peculiar paren- 
tal piety, 
May he never come hack !] 

Daughter. 
And I dream of his ghost 
Walking round my bedpost — 
Oh, mother, he's going away ! 



THE QUAKER'S MEETING. 

A traveller wended the wilds among, 
With a purse of gold and a silver tongue ; 
His hat it was broad and all drab were his 

clothes, 
For he hated high colors — except on his nose, 
And he met with a lady, the story goes. 

Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. 

The damsel she cast him a beamy blink, 
And the traveller nothing was loth, I think ; 
Her merry black eye beam'd her bonnet 

beneath, 
And the Quaker he grinn'd — for he'd very 

good teeth. 
And he ask'd, " Art thee going to ride on 

the heath ?" 

Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. 

"I hope you'll protect me, kind sir," said 

the maid, 
" As to ride this heath over I'm sadly afraid ; 
For robbers, they say, here in numbers 

abound, 
And I wouldn't ' for anything' I should be 

found, 
For — between you and me — I have five 

hundred pound." 

Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. 



"If that is thee' own, dear," the Quaker he 

said, 
" I ne'er saw a maiden I sooner would wed ; 
And I have another five hundred just now, 
In the padding that's under my saddle-bow. 
And I'll settle it all upon thee, I vow !" 

Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. 

The maiden she smiled, and her rein she drew, 
"Your offer I'll take — though I'll not take 

you." 
A pistol she held at the Quaker's head — 
" Now give me your gold — or I'll give yon 

my lead — 
'Tis under the saddle I think you said." 

Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. 

The damsel she ripp'd up the saddle-bow, 
And the Quaker was never a Quaker till now, 
And he saw, by the fair one he wish'd for a 

bride, 
His purse borne away with a swaggering 

stride, 
And the eye that shamm'd tender, now only 

defied. 

Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. 

"The spirit doth move me, friend Broad- 
brim," quoth she, 

" To take all this filthy temptation from thee, 

For Mammon deceiveth — and beauty is fleet- 
ing; 

Accept from thy maaitfn a right loving 
greeting, 

For much doth she profit by this Quaker's 
meeting." 

Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. 

" And hark ! jolly Quaker, so rosy and sly, 
Have righteousness, more than a wench, in 

thine eye, 
Don't go again peeping girls' bonnets beneath, 
Remember the one that you met on the 

heath, — 
Her name's Jimmy Barlow — I tell to your 

teeth !" 

Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. 



• The inferior class of Quakers make thee serve not only In 
its true grammatical use, but also to do the duty of thou, thy, 
and thine. 







mm 



C, *fW^ 



POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER 



"■Friend James," quoth the Quaker, "pray 

listen to me, 
For thou canst confer a great favor, d'ye see ; 
The gold thou hast taken is not mine, my 

friend, 
But my master's — and truly on thee I depend, 
To make it appear I my trust did defend." 
Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. 

"So fire a few shots through my clothes, 

here and there, 
To make it appear 'twas a desp'rate affair.'' — 
So Jim he popp'd first through the skirt of 

his coat, 
And then through his collar — quite close to 

his throat ; 
" Now one through my broadhrim," quoth 

Ephraim, " I vote." 

Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. 

" I have but a brace," said bold Jim, " and 
they're spent, 

And I won't load again for a make-believe 
rent." — 

" Then" — said Ephraim, producing his pis- 
tols — "just give 

My five hundred pounds back — or as sure as 
you live 

I'll make of your body a riddle or sieve." 

Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. 

Jim Barlow was diddled— -and, though he 

was game, 
He saw Ephraim's pistol so deadly in aim, 
That he gave up the gold, and he took to 

his scrapers ; 
And when the whole story got into the 

papers, 
They said that " the thieves were no match 

for the Quakers.'''' 

Heigho ! yea thee and nay thee. 



NATIVE MUSIC. 

Oh ! native music ! beyond comparing 
The sweetest far on the ear that falls, 

Thy gentle numbers the heart remembers, 
Thy strains enchain us in tender thralls. 



Thy tones endearing, 

Or sad or cheering, 
The absent soothe on a foreign strand ; 

Ah ! who can tell 

What a holy spell 
Is in the song of our native land ? 

The proud and lowly, the pilgrim holy, 

The lover, kneeling at beauty's shrine, 
The bard who dreams by the haunted 
streams, — 
All, all are touch'd by thy power divine ! 
The captive cheerless, 
The soldier fearless ; 
The mother — taught by Nature's hand — 
Her child when weeping, 
Will lull to sleeping, 
With some sweet song of her native land ! 



THE CHARM. 

[They say that a flower may be found in a valley opening to 
the West, which beBtows on the finder the power of winning 
the affection of the person to whom it is presented. Hence, 
it is supposed, has originated the custom of presenting a 
bouquet.] 

They say there's a secret charm which lies 

In some wild floweret's bell, 
That grows in a vale where the west wind 
sighs, 

And where secrets best may dwell ; 
And they who can find the fairy flower, 

A treasure possess that might grace a 
throne ; 
For, oh ! they can rule with the softest power 

The heart they would make their own. 

The Indian has toil'd in the dusky mine, 

For the gold that has made him a slave ; 
Or, plucking the pearl from the sea-god's 
shrine, 

Has tempted the wrath of the wave; 
But ne'er has he sought, with a love like mine, 

The flower that holds the heart in thrall : 
Oh ! rather I'd win that charm divine, 

Than their gold and their pearl and all. 

I've sought it by day, from morn till eve, 
I've won it — in dreams at night ; 



POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 



And then how I grieve my couch to leave, 
And sigh at the morning's light : 

Yet sometimes I think in a hopeful hour, 
The blissful moment I yet may see 

To -win the fair flower from the fairy's bower 
And give it, love — to thee. 



THE FOUR-LEAVED SHAMROCK. 



I'll seek a four-leaved shamrock in all the 
fairy dells, 

And if I find the charmed leaves, oh, how 
I'll weave my spells ! 

I would not waste my magic might on dia- 
mond, pearl, or gold, 

For treasure tires the weary sense, — such 
triumph is but cold ; 

But I would play the enchanter's part, in 
casting bliss around, — 

Oh ! not a tear, nor aching heart, should in 
the world be found ! 

To worth I would give honor ! — I'd dry the 
mourner's tears, 

And to the pallid lip recall the smile of hap- 
pier years, 

And hearts that had been long estranged, 
and friends that had grown cold, 

Should meet again — like parted streams — 
and mingle as of old ; 

Oh ! thus I'd play the enchanter's part, thus 
scatter bliss around, 

And not a tear, nor aching heart, should in 
the world be found ! 

The heart that had been mourning o'er van- 

ish'd dreams of love, 
Should see them all returning — like Noah's 

faithful dove, 
And Hope should launch her blessed bark 

on Sorrow's darkening sea, 
And Misery's children have an ark, and 

saved from sinking be ; 
Oh ! thus I'd play the enchanter's part, thus 

scatter bliss around, 
And not a tear, nor aching heart, should in 

the world be found ! 



OH 



WATCH YOU WELL BY 
DAYLIGHT. 



[The IriBh peasant Bays, " Watch well by daylight, for then 
your own senses are awake to guard yon : bat keep no watch 
In darkness, for then God watches over yon." This, however, 
can hardly be called a superstition, there is eo mach of rigltifvi 
reverence in it : for though, in perfect truth, we are aa depend- 
ent on God by day as by night, yet some allowance may b» 
made for the poetic fondness of the saying.'] 

Oh, watch you well by daylight, 

By daylight may you fear, 
But take no watch in darkness — 

The angels then are near : 
For Heaven the gift bestoweth 

Our waking life to keep, 
But tender mercy showeth 

To guard us in our sleep. 

Then watch you well by daylight 

Oh, watch you well in pleasure, 

For pleasure oft betrays, 
But take no watch in sorrow, 

When joy withdraws its rays : 
For in the hour of sorrow, 

As in the darkness drear, 
To Heaven intrust the morrow — 

The angels then are near. 

Then watch you well by daylight. 



RORY O'MORE; OR, GOOD OMENS. 

Young Rokt O'Moee courted Kathleen 

Bawn, 
He was bold as a hawk, — she as soft as the 

dawn ; 
He wish'd in his heart pretty Kathleen to 

please, 
And he thought the best way to do that was 

to tease. 
" Now, Rory, be aisy," sweet Kathleen 

would cry, 
(Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her eye,) 
" With your tricks I don't know, in troth, 

what I'm about ; 
Faith you've teased till I've put on my cloak 

inside out." 
" Oh ! jewel," says Rory, " that same is the 

way 
You've thrated my heart this many a day ; 





BL JH 1 


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■"'-I 



POEMS OP SAMUEL LOVER. 



And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not to he 

sure? 
For 'tis all for good luck," says hold Rory 

O'More. 

"Indeed then," says Kathleen, " don't think 

of the like, 
For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike : 
The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be 

bound." 
"Faith," says Rory, "I'd rather love you 

than the ground." 
"Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go ; 
Sure I drame ev'ry night that I'm hating 

you so !" 
" Oh," says Rory, " that same I'm delighted 

to hear, 
For drames always go by conthrairies, my 

dear; 
Oh ! jewel, keep draining that same till you 

die, 
And bright morning will give dirty night 

the black lie ! 
And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not to be 

sure? 
Since 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory 

O'More. 

" Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've teased 

me enough, 
Sure I've thrash'd for your sake Dinny 

Grimes and Jim Duff • 
And I've made myself, drinking your health, 

quite a baste, 
So I think, after that, I may talk to the priest.'''' 1 
Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round 

her neck, 
So soft and so white, without freckle or speck, 
And he look'd in her eyes that were beam- 
ing with light, 
And he kiss'd her sweet lips; — don't you 

think he was right ? 
" Now, Rory, leave off, sir ; you'll hug me 

no more, 
That's eight times to-day you have kiss'd me 

before." 
"Then here goes another," says he, "to 

make sure, 
For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory 

O'More. 



P»ddy'8 mode of asking a girl to name the day. 



THE BLARNEY. 

[There is a certain coign-stone on the summit of Blarney 
Castle, in the county of Cork, the kissing of which Is said to 
impart the gift of persuasion. Hence tie phrase, applied to 
those who make a flattering speech— " Ton've kissed the 
Blarney Stone."] 

Oh ! did you ne'er hear of " the Blarney," 
That's found near the banks of Killarney ? 
Believe it from me, 
No girl's heart is free, 
Once she hears the sweet sound of the 
Blarney. 
For the Blarney's so great a deceiver, 
That a girl thinks you're there, though yon 
leave her ; 

And never finds out 
All the tricks you're about, 
Till she's quite gone herself, — with your 
Blarney. 

Oh ! say, would you find this same " Blar- 
ney ?" 
There's a castle not far from Killarney, 
On the top of its wall — 
(But take care you don't fall) — 
There's a stone that contains all this Blar- 
ney. 
Like a magnet, its influence such is, 
That attraction it gives all it touches ; 
If you kiss it, they say, 
Prom that blessed day, 
You may kiss whom you please with your 
Blarney. 



THE CHAIN OF GOLD. 

[The Earl of Kildare, Lord-Depnty of Ireland, ruled Justly, 
and was hated by the small oppressors whose practices he dis- 
countenanced. They accused him of favoring the Irish to the 
King's detriment, but he, in the presence of the King, rebut- 
ted their calumnies. They said, at last, " Please your High- 
ness, all Ireland cannot rule this Earl."—" Then," saidHenry 
"he is the man to rule all Ireland," and he took the golden 
chain from his neck and threw it over the shoulders ot tht 
Earl, who returned, with honor, to his government.] 

Oh, Moina, I've a tale to tell 

Will glad thy soul, my girl : 
The King hath given a chain of gold 

To our noble-hearted EarL 






POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVEK. 



His foes, they rail'd — the Earl ne'er quail'd- 

But, with a front so bold, 
Before the King did backward fling 

The slanderous lies they told : 
And the King gave him no iron chain — 

No — he gave him a chain of gold ! 

Oh, 'tis a noble sight to see 

The cause of truth prevail : 
An honest cause is always proof 

Against a treacherous tale. 
Let fawning false ones court the great, 

The heart in virtue bold 
Will hold the right, in power's despite, 

Until that heart be cold : 
For falsehood's the bond of slavery, 

But truth is the chain of gold. 

False Connal wed the rich one 

With her gold and jewels rare, 
But Dermid wed the maid he loved, 

And she clear'd his brow from care : 
And thus, in our own hearts, love, 

We may read this lesson plain, 
Let outward joys depart, love, 

So peace within remain — 
For falsehood is an iron bond, 

But love is the golden chain ! 



GIVE ME MY ARROWS AND GIVE 
ME MY BOW. 



[In the Great North American lakes there are islands bear- 
ing the name of " Maniton" which signifies "The Gebat 
Si'nuT," and Indian tradition declares that in these islands 
the Great Spirit concealed the precious metals, thereby show- 
ing that he did not desire they should be possessed by man ; 
and that whenever some rash morlal has attempted to obtain 
treasure from " The Manitou Isle," hiB canoe was always 
overwhelmed by a tempest. The " Palefaces," however, fear- 
less of" Manitou's" thunder, are now working the extensive 
mineral region of the lakes.] 

Tempt me not, stranger, with gold from the 

mine, 
I have got treasure more precious than thine, 
Freedom in forest, and health in the chase, 
Where the hunter sees beauty in Nature's 

bright face : 
Then give me my arrows and give me my bow, 
In the wild-woods to rove where the blue 

rapids flow. 



If gold had been good, The Great Spirit 

had given 
That gift, like his others, as freely from 

heaven ; 
The lake gives me whitefish, the deer gives 

me meat, 
And the toil of the capture gives slumber so 

sweet : 
Then give me my arrows and give me my bow, 
In the wild-woods to rove where the blue 

rapids flow. 

Why seek you death in the dark cave to find, 
While there's life on the hill in the health- 
breathing wind? 
And death parts you soon from your treasure 

so bright — 
As the gold of the sunset is lost in the night : 
Then give me my arrows and give me my bow, 
In the wild-woods to rove where the blue 
rapids flow. 



THE HOUR BEFORE DAY. 

[There is a beautiful saying amongst the Irish peasantry to 
inspire hope under adverse circumstances :—" Remember," 
they say, "that the darkest hour of all is the hour before day."] 

Bereft of his love, and bereaved of his fame, 
A knight to the cell of an old hermit came : 
"My foes, they have slander'd and forced 

me to fly, 
Oh ! tell me, good father, what's left but to 

die ?" 
" Despair not, my son ; — thou'lt be righted 

ere long — 
For heaven is above us to right all the wrong ; 
Remember the words the old hermit doth 

say, — 
' 'Tis always the darkest the hour before day !' 

Then back to the tourney, and back to the 
court, 
And join thee, the bravest, in chivalry's sport; 
Thy foes will be there — and thy lady-love too, 
And show both thou'rt a knight that is gal- 
lant and true !" 
He rode in the lists — all his foes he o'erthrew, 



POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 



And a sweet glance he caught from a soft 

eye of blue : 
And he thought of the words the old hermit 

did say, 
For her glance was as bright as the dawning 

of day. 

The feast it was late in the castle that night, 

And the banquet was beaming with beauty 
and light ; 

But brightest of all is the lady who glides 

To a porch where a knight with a fleet 
courser bides. 

She paused 'neath the arch, at the fierce ban- 
dog's bark, 

She trembled to look on the night — 'twas so 
dark; 

But her lover he whisper'd, and thus did he 
say : 

" Sweet love, it is darkest the hour before 
day." 



MACARTHY'S GRAVE. 

A LEGEND OF KILLARNEY. 

The breeze was fresh, the morn was fair, 
The stag had left his dewy lair. 
To cheering horn and baying tongue 
Killarney's echoes sweetly rung. 
With sweeping oar and bending mast, 
The eager chase was following fast, 
When one light skhT a maiden steer'd 
Beneath the deep wave disappear'd : 
While shouts of terror wildly ring, 
A boatman brave, with gallant spring 
And dauntless arm, the lady bore — 
But he who saved — was seen no more ! 

Where weeping birches wildly wave, 

There boatmen show their brother's grave, 

And while they tell the name he bore, 

Suspended hangs the lifted oar. 

The silent drops thus idly shed, 

Seem like tears to gallant Ned ; 

And while gently gliding by, 

The tale is told with moistening eye. 

No ripple on the slumb'ring lake 

Unhallow'd oar doth ever make ; 

All undisturb'd the placid wave 

P lows gently o'er.-Macarthy's grave. 



ST. KEVIN. 

A LEGEND OF GLEND ALOUGH 

At Glendalough lived a young saint. 

In odor of sanctity dwelling, 
An old-fashion'd odor, which now 

We seldom or never are smelling ; 
A book or a hook were to him 

The utmost extent of his wishes; 
Now, a snatch at the " Lives of the Saints;" 

Then, a catch at the lives. of the fishes. 

There was a young woman one day, 

Stravagin 1 along by the lake, sir ; 
She look'd hard at St. Kevin, they say, 

But St. Kevin no notice did take, sir. 
When she found looking hard wouldn't do, 

She look'd soft — in the old sheep's eye 
fashion ; 
But, with all her sheep's eyes, she could not 

In St. Kevin see signs of soft passion. 

"You're a great hand at fishing," says Kate , 
" 'Tis yourself that knows how, faith, to 
hook them ; 
But, when you have caught them, agra, 
Don't you want a young woman to cook 
them ?" 
Says the saint, " I am ' sayrious inclined? 

I intend taking orders for life, dear." 
" Only marry," says Kate, " and you'll find 
You'll get orders enough from your wife, 
dear." 

" You shall never be flesh of my flesh," 

Says the saint, with an anchorite groan, 
sir; 
" I see that myself," answer'd Kate, 

" I can only be ' bone of your bone,' sir. 
And even your bones are so scarce," 

Said Miss Kate, at her answers so glib, 
sir, 
" That I think you would not be the worse 

Of a little additional rib, sir." 

The saint, in a rage, seized the lass, — 

He gave her one twirl round his head, sir, 

And, before Doctor Arnott's invention, 
Prescribed her a watery bed, sir. 



POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 



Oil ! — cruel St. Kevin ! — for shame ! 

When a lady her heart came to barter, 
You should not have been Knight of the Bath, 

But have bow'd to the order of Garter. 



THE INDIAN SUMMER. 

[The brief period which succeeds the autumnal close, called 
" The Indian summer"— a refler, as It were, of the early por- 
tion of the year— strikes a stranger In America as peculiarly 
fceautiful, and quite charmed me.] 

When summer's verdant beauty flies, 
And Autumn glows with richer dyes, 
A softer charm beyond them lies — 

It is the Indian summer. 
Ere winter's snows and winter's breeze 
Bereave of beauty all the trees, 
The balmly spring renewal sees 

In the sweet Indian summer. 



And thus, dear love, if early years 
Have drown'd the germ of joy in tears, 
A later gleam of hope appears — 

Just like the Indian summer : 
And ere the snows of age descend, 
Oh trust me, dear one, changeless friend, 
Our falling years may brightly end — 

Just like the Indian summer. 



THE WAR-SHD? OP PEACE. 



JThe Americans exhibited much sympathy toward Ireland 
»-hen the famine raged there in 1847. A touching instance 
was then given how the better feelings of our nature may 
employ even the enginery of destruction to serve the cause of 
humanity ;— an American frigate (the Jamestown, I believe), 
was dismantled of all her warlike appliances, and placed at the 
disposal of the charitable to carry provisions.] 



Sweet Land of Song ! thy harp doth hang 

Upon the willows now, 
While famine's blight and fever's pang 

Stamp misery on thy brow ; 
Yet take thy harp, and raise thy voice, 

Though faint and low it be, 
And let thy sinking heart rejoice 

In friends still left to thee ! 



Look out — look out — across the sea 

That girds thy emerald shore, 
A ship of war is bound for thee, 

But with no warlike store ; 
Her thunder sleeps — 'tis Mercy's breath 

That wafts her o'er the sea ; 
She goes not forth to deal out death, 

But bears new life to thee ! 

Thy wasted hand can scarcely strike 

The chords of grateful praise ; 
Thy plaintive tone is now unlike 

Thy voice of former days ; 
Yet, even in sorrow, tuneful still, 

Let Erin's voice proclaim 
In bardic praise, on every hill, 

Columbia's glorious name ! 



AN HONEST HEART TO GUIDE US. 

As day by day 

We hold our way 
Through this wild world below, boys, 

With roads so cross, 

We're at a loss 
To know which way to go, boys : 

With choice so vex'd 

When man's perplex'd, 
And many a doubt has tried him, 

It is not long 

He'll wander wrong, 
With an honest heart to guide him. 

When rough the way, 

And dark the day, 
More steadfastly we tread, boys, 

Than when by flowers 

In wayside bowers 
We from the path are led, boys : 

Oh ! then beware — 

The serpent there 
Is gliding close beside us ; 

'Twere death to stay — 

So speed the way, 
With an honest heart to guide us. 



If fortune's gale 
Should fill our sail, 



POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 



191 



While others lose the wind, boys, 

Look kindly back 

Upon the track 
Of luckless mates behind, boys: 

If we won't heed 

A friend in need, 
May rocks ahead abide as ! 

Let's rather brave 

Both wind and wave, 
With an honest heart to guide us ! 



THE BIRTH OF SAINT PATRICK. 

Ok the eighth day of March it was, some 

people say, 
That Saint Pathrick at midnight he first saw 

the day ; 
While others declare 'twas the ninth he was 

born, 
And 'twas all a mistake between midnight 

and morn ; 
For mistakes will occur in a hurry and shock, 
And some blamed the babby — and some 

blamed the clock — 
Till with all their cross questions sure no 

one could know, 
If the child was too fast — or the clock was 

too slow. 

Now the first faction fight in owld Ireland, 

they say, 
Was all on account of Saint Pathrick's birth- 

day, 
Some fought for the eighth — for the ninth 

more would die, 
And who wouldn't see right, sure they 

blacken'd his eye ! 
At last, both the factions so positive grew, 
That each kept a birthday, so Pat then had 

two, 
Till Father Mulcahy, who show'd them their 

sins, 
Said " No one could have two birthdays, but 

a twin*." 

Says he, " Boys, don't be fightin' for eight or 

for nine, 
Don't be always dividin' — but sometimes 

combine ; 



Combine eight with nine, and seventeen is 

the mark, 
So let that be his birthday." — " Amen," says 

the clerk. 
" If he wasn't a twins, sure our hist'ry will 

show 
That, at least, he's worth any two saints that 

we know 1" 
Then they all.got blind dhrunk — which com- 

plated their bliss, 
And we keep up the practice from that day 

to this. 



THE ARAB. 

[The Interesting fact on -which this ballad la founded occur- 
red to Mr. Davidson, the celebrated traveller, between Moamt 
Sinai and Suez, on his overland return from India in 1839. Ha 
related the story to me shortly before his leaving England on 
his last fatal journey to Timbuctoo.] 

The noontide blaze on the desert fell, 
As the traveller reach'd the wish'd-for well ; 
But vain was the hope that cheer'd him on, 
His hope in the desert — the waters — were 
gone. 

Fainting, he call'd on the Holy Name, 
And swift o'er the desert an Arab came, 
And with him he brought of the blessed thing 
That fail'd the poor traveller at the spring. 

" Drink !" said the Arab, — " though I must 

fast, 
For half of my journey is not yet past ; 
Tis long e'er my home or my children I 

see, 
But the crystal treasure I'll share with thee." 

" Nay," said the weary one, " let me die, — 
For thou hast even more need than I ; 
And children hast thou that are watching 

for thee, 
And I am a lone one — none watch for me." 

" Drink 1" said the Arab. — "My children 

shall see 
Their father returning — fear not for me : — 
For HE who hath sent me to thee this day. 
Will watch o'er me on my desert way," 



POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 



FAG-AN-BEALACH. 1 

[This song occnre in a scene of political excitement de- 
scribed in the story of •' He would be a Gentleman," bnt 
might equally belong to many other periods of the history of 
Ireland, — a harassed land, which has been forced to nurse in 
lecret many a deep and dread desire.] 

Fill the cup, my brothers, 

To pledge a toast, 
Which, beyoud all others, 

We prize the most ; 
As yet 'tis but a notion 

Wi c'ire not name ; 
But soon o'er land and ocean 

'Twill fly with fame ! 
Then give the game before us 

One view holla, 
Hip ! hurra ! in chorus, 

Fag-an-Bealach. 

We our hearts can fling, boys, 

O'er this notion, 
As the sea-bird's wing, boys, 

Dips the ocean. 
'Tis too deep for words, boys, 

The thought we know, 
So, like the ocean bird, boys, 

We touch and go ; 
For dangers deep surrounding, 

Our hopes might swallow ; 
So, through the tempest bounding, 
Fag-an-Bealach. 

This thought with glory rife, boys, 

Did brooding dwell, 
'Till time did give it life, boys, 

To break the shell ; 
'Tis in our hearts yet lying, 

An unfledged thing, 
But soon, an eaglet flying, 

'Twill take the wing ! 
For 'tis no timeling frail, boys, — 

No summer swallow, — 
'Twill live through winter's gale, boys, 
Fag-an-Bealach. 

Lawyers may indite us 

By crooked laws, 
Soldiers strive to fright us 

From country's cause ; 



But we will sustain it 

Living — dying — 
Point of law or bay'net 

Still defying ! 
Let their parchment rattle — 

Drums are hollow : 
So is lawyers' prattle — 

Fag-an-Bealach. 

Better early graves, boys — 

Dark locks gory, 
Than bow the head as slaves, boys, 

When they're hoary. 
Fight it out we must, boys, 

Hit or miss it, 
Better bite the dust, boys, 

Than to kiss it ! 
For dust to dust at last, boys — 

Death will swallow — 
Hark ! the trumpet's blast, boys, 
Fag-an-Bealach. 



THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. 

[The mystery attendant npon the Councils of Venice In 
creased the terror of their rule. A covered bridge between 
the Ducal palace and the State prison served as a private pas- 
sage, by which suspected or condemned persons were trans- 
ferred at once from examination to the dungeon —hence it wa» 
called " The Bridge of Sighs."] 

Above the sparkling waters, 

Where Venice crowns the tide, 
Behold the home of sorrow 

So near the home of pride ; 
A palace and a prison 

Beside each other rise, 
And, dark between, a link is seen — 

It is " The Bridge of Sighs." 

Row, gondolier, row fast, row fast, 
Until that fatal bridge be past. 

But not alone in Venice 

Are joy and grief so near; 
To-day the smile may waken, 

To-morrow wake the tear ; 
'Tis next the " House of mourning" 

That Pleasure's palace lies, 
'Twixt joy and grief the passage brief — 

Just like " The Bridge of Sighs." 

Row, gondolier, row fast, row fast, 
Until that fatal bridge be past 



POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 



Who seeks for joy unclouded, 

Must never seek it here ; 
But in a purer region — 

And in a brighter sphere ; 
To lead the way before us, 

Bright hope unfailing flies : — 
This earth of ours, to Eden's bowers 

Ts but a " Bridge of Sighs." 

Fly, fly, sweet hope, fly fast, fly fast, 
Until that bridge of sighs be past. 



THE CHILD AND AUTUMN LEAF. 

Do"wjit by the river's bank I stray'd 

Upon an autumn day; 
Beside the fading forest there, 

I saw a child at play. 
She play'd among the yellow leaves — 

The leaves that once were green, 
And flung upon the passing stream, 

What once had blooming been : 
Oh ! deeply did it touch my heart 

To see that child at play ; 
It w%s the sweet unconscious sport 

f vf childhood with decay. 

P air child, if by this stream you stray, 

When after-years go by, 
The scene that makes thy childhood's sport, 

May wake thy age's sigh : 
When fast you see around you fall 

The summer's leafy pride, 
And mark the river hurrying on 

Its ne'er-returning tide ; 
Then may you feel, in pensive mood, 

That life's a summer dream ; 
And man, at last, forgotten falls — 

A leaf upon the stream. 



FORGIVE, BUT DON'T FORGET. 

I'm going, Jessie, far from thee, 
To distant lands beyond the sea ; 
I would not, Jessie, leave thee now, 
With anger's cloud upon thy brow. 
Remember that thy mirthful friend 
Might sometimes tease, but ne'er offeru 



That mirthful friend is sad the while, — 
Oh, Jessie, give a parting smile. 

Ah, why should friendship larshly chide 
Our little faults on either side ? 
From friends we love we bear with those, 
As thorns are pardon'd for the rose : — 
The honey-bee, on busy wing, 
Producing sweets — yet bears a sting ; 
The purest gold most needs alloy, 
And sorrow is the nurse of joy. 

Then, oh ! forgive me, ere I part, 
And if some corner in thy heart 
For absent friend a place might be — 
Ah ! keep that little place for me ! 
" Forgive — Forget," we're wisely told, 
Is held a maxim good and old ; 
But half the maxim's better yet : 
Then, oh ! forgive, but don't forget I 



THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME. 

The hour was sad I left the maid, 

A lingering farewell taking, 
Her sighs and tears my steps delay'd — 

I thought her heart was breaking ; 
In hurried words her name I bless'd, 

I breathed the vows that bind me, 
And to my heart, in anguish, press'd 

The girl I left behind me. 

Then to the East we bore away 

To win a name in story ; 
And there, where dawns the sun of day, 

There dawn'd our sun of glory ! 
Both blazed in noon on Alma's height, 

Where, in the post assign'd me, 
I shared the glory of that fight, 

Sweet girl I left behind me. 

Full many a name our banners bore 

Of former deeds of daring, 
But they were of the days of yore, 

In which we had no sharing ; 
But now, our laurels, freshly won, 

With the old ones shall entwined be, 
Still worthy of our sires, each son, 

Sweet girl I left behind me. 



POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 



The hope of final victory 

Within my bosom burning, 
In mingling with sweet thoughts 
thee 

And of my fond returning: 
But should I ne'er return again, 

Still worth thy love thou'lt find me, 
Dishonor's breath shall never stain 

The name I'll leave behind me 1 



THE FLAG IS HALF-MAST HIGH. 

A BALLAD OF THE WALMEH WATCH." 

A gtjabd of honor kept its watch in Wal- 

mer's ancient hall, 
And sad and silent was the ward beside the 

Marshal's pall ; 
The measured tread beside the dead through 

echoing space might tell 
How solemnly the round was paced by 

lonely sentinel ; 
But in the guard-room, down below, a war- 
worn veteran gray 
Recounted all The Hero's deeds, through 

many a glorious day : 
How, 'neath the red-cross flag he made the 

foes of Britain fly — 
' Though now, for him," the veteran said, 

" that flag is half-mast high !" 

" I mark one day, when far away the Duke 

on duty went, 
That Soult came reconnoitering our front 

with fierce intent ; 
But when nis ear caught up our cheer, the 

cause he did divine, 
He could not doubt why that bold shout 

was ringing up the line; 
He felt it was the Duke come back, his lads 

to reassure, 
And our position, weak before, he felt was 

then secure,* 



> Arthur, Field-Marshal the Dnke of Wellington, died on 
Dm 14th of September, 1852, at Walmer Castle, where hit body 
lay In state tinder a guard of honor. 

• This incident, which occurred in the Pyrenees, is related 
In Napier's •' History of the Peninsular War." 



He beat retreat, while we did beat advance, 

and made him fly 
Before the conquering flag — that now i* 

drooping half-mast high 1' 

And truly might the soldier say his presence 

ever gave 
Assurance to the most assured, and bravery 

to the brave ; 
His prudence-tempered valor — his eagle- 
sighted skill, 
And calm resolves, the measure of a hero 

went to fill. 
Fair Fortune flew before him; 'twas conquest 

where he came — 
For Victory wove her chaplet in the magic 

of his name, 
But while his name thus gilds the past, the 

present wakes a sigh, 
To see his flag of glory now — but drooping 

half-mast high ! 

In many a bygone battle, beneath an Indian 
sun, 

That flag was borne in triumph o'er the 
sanguine plains he won ; 

Where'er that flag he planted, impregnable 
became, 

As Torres Vedras' heights have told in glit- 
tering steel and flame. 

'Twas then to wild Ambition's Chief he flung 
the gauntlet down, 

And from his iron grasp retrieved the ancient 
Spanish crown ; 

He drove him o'er the Pyrenees with 
Victory's swelling cry, 

Before the red-cross flag — that now is droop- 
ing half-mast high ! 

And when once more from Elba's shore the 

Giant Chief broke loose, 
And startled nations waken'd from the calm 

of hollow truce, 
In foremost post the British host soon 

sprang to arms again, 
And Fate in final balance held the world's 

two foremost men. 
The Chieftains twain might ne'er again have 

need for aught to do, 
So, once for all, we won the fall at glo 

Waterloo ; — 



POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 



195 



The work was done, -ind Wellington his 


In vain may tropic climes display 


savior-sword laid by, 


Their glittering shores — their gorgeooa 


And now, in grief, to mourn our Chief— the 


shells ; 


flag is half-mast high I 


Though bright birds wing their dazzling way, 




And glorious flowers adorn the dells, 




Though Nature, there prolific, pours 




The treasures of her magic hand, 




The eye, but not the heart, adores : 


I CAN NE'ER FORGET THEE. 


The heart still beats for native land. 


It is the chime ; the hour draws near 




When you and I must sever ; 




Alas ! it must be many a year, 




And it may be forever. 


MEMORY AND HOPE. 


How long till we shall meet again ; 




How short since first I met thee ; 


Opt have I mark'd, as o'er the sea 


How brief the bliss — how long the pain — 


We've swept before the wind, 


For I can ne'er forget thee ! 


That those whose hearts were on the shore 




Cast longing looks behind ; 


You said my heart was cold and stern, 


While they whose hopes have elsewhere been, 


You doubted love when strongest ; 


Have watch'd with anxious eyes 


In future years you'll live to learn 


To see the hills that lay before 


Proud hearts can love the longest. 


Faint o'er the waters rise 


Oh ! sometimes think when press'd to hear, 




When flippant tongues beset thee, 


"Rs thus as o'er the sea of life 


That all must love thee when thou'rt near ; 


Our onward course we track, 


But one will ne'er forget thee ! 


That anxious sadness looks before, 




The happy still look back ; 


The changeful sand doth only know 


Still smiling on the course they've pass'd, 


The shallow tide and latest ; 


As earnest of the rest : — • 


The rocks have mark'd its highest flow 


'Tis Hope's the charm of wretchedness, 


The deepest and the greatest : 


While Mem'ry woos the blest. 


And deeper still the flood-marks grow ; — 




So since the hour I met thee, 




The more the tide of time doth flow 




The less can I forget thee ! 






MOLLY CAREW. 





Och hone ! and what will I do ? 




Sure my love is all crost 


LOVE AND HOME AND NATIVE 


Like a bud in the frost ; 


LAND. 


And there's no use at all in my going to bed, 




For 'tis dhrames and not sleep comes into 


When o'er the silent deep we rove, 


my head, 


More fondly then our thoughts will stray 


And 'tis all about you, 


To those we leave — to those we love, 


My sweet Molly Carew — 


Whose prayers pursue our watery way. 


And indeed 'tis a sin and a shame ; 


When in the lonely midnight hour 


You're complater than Nature 


The sailor takes his watchful stand, 


In every feature, 


His heart then feels the holiest power 


The snow can't compare 


Of love and home and native land. 


With your forehead so fair, 



J 



196 



POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 



And I rather would see just one blink of 

your eye 
Than the purtiest star that shines out of the 
sky; 
And by this and by that, 
For the matter o' that, 
You're more distant by far than that 
same ! 
Och hone ! weirasthru I 
I'm alone in this world without you. 

Och hone ! but why should I spake 
Of your forehead and eyes 
When your nose it defies 
Paddy Blake, the schoolmaster, to put it in 

rhyme ? 
Though there's one Burke, he says, that 
would call it s?iub\\me. 
And then for your cheek ! 
Throth, 'twould take him a week 
Its beauties to tell, as he'd rather. 
Then your lips ! oh, machree! 
In their beautiful glow, 
They a patthern might be 
For the cherries to grow. 
'Twas an apple that tempted our mother, we 

know, 
For apples were scarce, I suppose, long ago ; 
But at this time o' day, 
'Pon my conscience I'll say 
Such cherries might tempt a man's 
father ! 
Och hone ! weirasthru I 
I'm alone in this world without you. 

Och hone ! by the man in the moon, 
You tase me always 
That a woman can plaze, 
For you dance twice as high with that thief, 

Pat Magee, 
As when you take share of a jig, dear, with 
me, 
Though the piper I bate, 
For fear the owld chate 
Wouldn't play you your favorite tune ; 
And when you're at mass 
My devotion you crass, 
For 'tis thinking of you 
I am, Molly Carew, 
While you wear, on purpose, a bonnet so 
deep, 



That I can't at your sweet purty face get t 
peep : — 
Oh, lave off that bonnet, 
Or else I'll lave on it 
The loss of my wandherin' sow] ! 
Och hone ! weirasthru ! 
Och hone ! like an owl, 
Day is night, dear, to me, without you 1 

Och hone ! don't provoke me to do it ; 
For there's girls by the score 
That love me — and more, 
And you'd look very quare if some mo-ruing 

you'd meet 
My weddin' all marchin' in pride down the 
sthreet ; 
Throth, you'd open your eyes, 
And you'd die with surprise, 
To think 'twasn't you was come to it ! 
And faith Katty Naile, 
And her cow, I go bail, 
Would jump if I'd say, 
" Katty Naile, name the day." 
And though you're fair and fresh as a morn 

ing in May, 
While she's short and dark like a cowld 
winther's day, 
Yet if you don't repent 
Before Easther, when Lent 
Is over I'll marry for spite ! 
Och hone ! weirasthru ! 
And when I die for you, 
My ghost will haunt you every night. 



MY DARK-HAIRED GIRL 

My dark-hair'd girl, thy ringlets deck, 

In silken curl, thy graceful neck ; 

Thy neck is like the swan, and fair as the 
pearl, 

And light as air the step is of my dark- 
haired girl. 

My dark-haired girl, upon thy lip 
The dainty bee might wish to sip ; 
For thy lip it is the rose, and thy teeth they 

are pearl, 
And diamond is the eye of my dark-hairefl 

girl! 



POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVER. 



197 



My dark-haired girl, I've promised thee, 

And thou thy faith hast given to me, 

And oh, I would not change for the crown 

of an earl 
The pride of being loved by my dark-hair' d 

girl! 



NORAH'S LAMENT. 

Oh, I think I must follow my Cushla-ma- 
ehree, 
For I can't break the spell of his words 
so enthralling : 
Closer the tendrils around my heart 

creep — 
I dream all the day, and at night I can't 
sleep, 
For I hear a sad voice that is calling me — 
calling — 
*' Oh Nor&h, my darling, come over the sea !" 

For my buve and my fond one is over the 
sea, 
He fought for "the cause" and the 
troubles came o'er him ; 
He fled for his life when the king lost 

the day, 
He fled for his life — and he took mine 
away ; 
For 'tis death here without him : I, dying, 
deplore him, 
Ob ! life of my bosom ! — my Cushla-ma- 
chree ! 



THE SILENT FAREWELL. 

In silence we parted, for neither could speak, 
But the tremulous lip and the fast-fading 

cheek 
To both were betraying what neither could 

tell- 
How deep was the pang of that silent fare- 
well ! 

There are signs— ah ! the slightest — that 

love understands, 
In the meeting of eyes— in the parting of 

hands — 



In the quick-breathing sighs that of deep 

passion tell : 
Oh, such were the signs of our silent famwcll ! 

There's a language more glowing love 

teaches the tongue 
Than poet e'er dream'd, or than minstrel 

e'er sung, 
But oh, far beyond all such language could 

tell, 
The love that was told in that silent farewell 1 



'TWAS THE DAT OF THE FEAST. 

[When the annual tribute of the flag of Waterloo to tha 
crown of England was made to William the Fourth, a few 
hourB before his Majesty's lamented death, the King on re- 
ceiving the banner, pressed it to his heart, saying, " It was a 
glorious day for England ;'? and expressed a wish he might 
survive the day, that the Duke of Wellington's commemoration 
fete of the victory of Waterloo might take place. A dying 
monarch receiving the banner commemorative of a national 
conquest, and wishing at the same time that his death might 
not disturb the triumphal banquet, is at once so heroic and 
poetic, that it naturally suggests a poem.] 

'Twas the day of the feast in the chieftain's 

hall, 
'Twas the day he had seen the foeman fall, 
'Twas the day that his country's valor stood 
'Gainst steel and fire and the tide of blood : 
And the day was mark'd by his country 

well — 
For they gave him broad valleys, the hill 

and the dell, 
And they ask'd, as a tribute, the hero should 

bring 
The flag of the foe to the foot of the king. 

'Twas the day of the feast in the chieftain's 

hall, 
And the banner was brought at the chief- 
tain's call, 
And he went in his glory the tribute to bring, 
To lay at the foot of the brave old king : 
But the hall of the king was in silence and 

grief, 
And smiles, as of old, did not greet the chief; 
For he came on the angel of victory's wing, 
While the angel of death was awaiting the 
king. 



198 



POEMS OF SAMUEL LOVElt. 



The chieftain he knelt by the couch of the 

king ; 
"I know," said the monarch, "the tribute 

you bring, 
Give me the banner, ere life depart ;" 
And he press'd the flag to his fainting heart. 
" It is joy, e'en in death," cried the monarch, 

" to say 
That my country hath known such a glorious 

day! 
Heaven grant I may live till the midnight's 

fall, 
That my chieftain may feast in his warrior 

hall !" 



WHAT WILL YOU DO, LOVE? 

" What will you do, love, when I am going, 
With white sail flowing, 

The seas beyoud ? — 
What will you do, love, when waves divide us, 
And friends may chide us 

For being fond ?" 
"Though waves divide us, and friends be 

chiding, 
In faith abiding, 

I'll still be true ! 
And I'll pray for thee on the stormy ocean, 
In deep devotion — 

That's what I'll do !" 

" What would you do, love, if distant tidings 
Thy fond confidings 

Should undermine ? — 
And I, abiding 'neath sultry skies, 
Should think other eyes 

Were as bright as thine?" 
" Oh, name it not ! — though guilt and shame 
Were on thy name, 

I'd still be true : 
But that heart of thine — should another 

share it — 
I could not bear it ! 

What would I do ?" 

" What would you do, love, when home re- 
turning, 
With hopes high-burning, 



With wealth for you, 
If my bark, which bounded o'er foreign foam, 
Should be lost near home — 

Ah ! what would you do ?" 
" So thou wert spared — I'd bless the mornm 
In want and sorrow, 

That left me you ; 
And I'd welcome thee from the wasting bil 

low, 
This heart thy pillow — 

That's what I'd do !" 



WHO ARE YOU? 

["There are very Impudent people in London," said a 
country cousin of mine m 1837. "As I walked down tbe 
Strand, a fellow stared at me and shouted, ' Who are you ?• 
Five minutes after another passing me, cried. ' Flare up'— 
but a civil gentleman, close to his heels, politely asked, -How 
is your mother ?' • 

This mere trifle is almost unintelligible now, but when first 
published was so effective and popular, as illustrating genieeilp 
the slang cries of the street, that it was honored by French 
and Italian versions from the sparkling pen of the renowned 
"Father Prout," in Bentley's Miscellany.] 

" Who are you ? who are you ? 

Little boy that's running after 
Everybody, up and down, 

Mingling sighing with your laughter V* 
" I a,m Cupid, lady Belle ; 

I am Cupid,, and no other." 
" Little boy, then prythee tell 

How is Venus ? — Solo's your mother t 
Little boy, little boy, 

I desire you tell me true, 
Cupid — oh, you're altered so, 

No wonder I cry, Who are you t 

" Who are you ? who are you ? 

Little boy, where is your bow ? 
You had a bow, my little boy " 

" So had you, ma'am — long ago." 
" Little boy, where is your torch ?" 

" Madam, I have given it up : 
Torches are no use at all — 

Hearts will never now flare up." 
" Naughty boy, naughty boy, 

Such words as these I never knew ; 
Cupid — oh, you're altered so, 

No wonder I say, Who are you .*'* 



THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



THE BRIDAL OF MALAHDDE. 



The joy-bells are ringing 

In gay Malahide, 
The fresh wind is singing 

Along the sea-side; 
The maids aie assembling 

With garlands of flowers, 
And the harpstrings are trembling 

In all the glad bowers. 

Swell, swell the gay measure ! 

Roll trumpet and drum ! 
'Mid greetings of pleasure 

In splendor they come ! 
The chancel is ready, 

The portal stands wide 
For the lord and the lady, 

The bridegroom and bride. 

What years, ere the latter, 

Of earthly delight 
The future shall scatter 

O'er them in its flight ! 
What blissful caresses 

Shall Fortune bestow, 
Ere those dark-flowing tresses 

Fall white as the snow 1 

Before the high altar 

Young Maud stands array'd; 
With accents that falter 

Her promise is made — 
From father and mother 

Forever to part, 
For him and no other 

To treasure her heart. 



The words are repeated, 

The bridal is done, 
The rite is completed — 

The two, they are one ; 
The vow, it is spoken 

All pure from the heart, 
That must not be broken 

Till life shall depart. 

Hark ! 'mid the gay clangor 

That compass'd their car, 
Loud accents, in anger 

Come mingling afar ! 
The foe's on the border, 

His weapons resound 
Where the lines in disorder 

Unguarded are found. 

As wakes the good shepherd, 

The watchful and bold, 
When the ounce or the leopard 

Is seen in the fold ; 
So rises already 

The chief in his mail, 
While the new-married lady 

Looks fainting and pale. 

" Son, husband, and brother, 

Arise to the strife, 
For sister and mother, 

For children and wife ! 
O'er hill and o'er hollow, 

O'er mountain and plain, 
Up, true men, and follow ! — 

Let dastards remain 1" 

Farrah ! to the battle ! 

They form into line — 
The shields, how they rattle ! 

The spears, how they shine I 



200 



THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



Soon, soon shall the foeman 

His treachery rue — 
On, burgher and yeoman, 

To die, or to do ! 

The eve is declining 

In ione Malahide, 
The maidens are twining 

Gay wreaths for the bride ; 
She marks them unheeding — 

Her heart is afar, 
Where the clansmen are bleeding 

For her in the war. 

Hark ! loud from the mountain, 

'Tis Victory's cry ! 
O'er woodland and fountain 

It rings to the sky ! 
The foe has retreated ! 

He flies to the shore ; 
The spoiler's defeated — 

The combat is o'er ! 

With foreheads unruflied 

The conquerors come — 
But why have they muffled 

The lance and the drum ? 
What form do they carry 

Aloft on his shield ? 
And where does he tarry, 

The lord of the field? 

Ye saw him at morning, 

How gallant and gay 1 
In bridal adorning, 

The star of the day : 
Now weep for the lover — 

His triumph is sped, 
His hope, it is over ! 

The chieftain is dead ! 

But, oh for the maiden 

Who mourns for that chief, 
With heart overladen 

And rending with grief! 
She sinks on the meadow — 

In one morning-tide, 
A wife and a widow, 

A maid and a bride ! 

Ye maidens attending, 
Forbear to condole ! 



Your comfort is rending 
The depths of her soul. 

True — true, 'twas a story 
For ages of pride ; 

He died in hia glory — 
But, oh, he has died ! 

The war-cloak she raises 

All mournfully now, 
And steadfastly gazes 

Upon the cold brow. 
That glance may forever 

Unalter'd remain, 
But the bridegroom will never 

Return it again. 

The dead-bells are tolling 

In sad Malahide, 
The death-wail is rolling 

Along the sea-side ; 
The crowds, heavy hearted, 

Withdraw from the green, 
For the sun had departed 

That brighten'd the scene ! 

Even yet iu that valley, 

Though years have roll'd by, 
When through the wild sally 

The sea-breezes sigh, 
The peasant, with sorrow, 

Beholds in the shade, 
The tomb where the morrow 

Saw Hussy convey'd. 

How scant was the warning, 

How briefly reveal'd, 
Before on that morning 

Death's chalice was fill'd ! 
The hero who drunk it 

There moulders in gloom, 
And the form of Maud Plunket 

Weeps over his tomb. 

The stranger who wanders 

Along the lone vale, 
Still sighs while he ponders 

On that heavy tale : 
"Thus passes each pleasure 

That earth can supply — 
Thus joy has its measure — 

We live but to die I" 



THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



HARK ! HARK 1 THE SOFT BUGLE. 



! hark ! the soft bugle sounds over the 
wood, 
And thrills in the silence of even, 
Till faint, and more faint, in the far solitude, 

It dies on the portals of heaven ! 
But echo springs up, from her home in the 
rock, 
And seizes the perishing strain ; 
And sends the gay challenge, with shadowy 
mock, 
From mountain to mountain again ! 

And again ! 
From mountain to mountain again. 

Oh, thus let my love, like a sound of delight, 
Be around thee while shines the glad 
day, 
And leave thee, unpain'd, in the silence of 
night, 
And die like sweet music away. 
While hope, with her warm light, thy glan- 
cing eye fills, 
Oh, say — " Like that echoing strain, 
Though the sound of his love has died over 
the hills, 
It will waken in heaven again." 

And again ! 
It will waken in heaven again. 



A SOLDIER— A SOLDD3R TO-NIGHT 
IS OUR GUEST. 

Fait, fan the gay hearth, and fling back the 

barr'd door, 
Strew, strew the fresh rushes around on our 

floor, 
&nd blithe be the welcome in every breast — 
For a soldier — a soldier to-night is our 

guest. 

All honor to him who, when danger afar 

Had lighted for ruin his ominous star, 

Left pleasure, and country, and kindred 

behind, 
And sped to the shock on the wings of the 

wind. 



If you value the blessings that shine at our 

hearth — 
The wife's smiling welcome, the infant's sweet 

mirth — 
While they charm us at eve, let us think 

upon those 
Who have bought with their blood oui 

domestic repose. 

Then share with the soldier your hearth and 

your home, 
And warm be your greeting whene'er he 

shall come ; 
Let love light a welcome in every breast — 
For a soldier — a soldier to-night is our guest 



AILEEN AROON. 

When like the early rose, 

Aileen aroon ! 
Beauty in childhood blows, 

Aileen aroon ! 
When like a diadem, 
Buds blush around the stem, 
Which is the fairest gem ? 

Aileen aioon! 

Is it the laughing eye ? 

Aileen aroon ! 
Is it the timid sigh ? 

Aileen aroon ! 
Is it the tender tone, 
Soft as the string'd harp's moan P 
Oh, it is truth alone, 

Aileen aroon ! 

When, like the rising day, 

Aileen aroon ! 
Love sends his early ray, 

Aileen aroon ! 
What makes his dawning glow 
Changeless through joy or woe ? 
Only the constant know, 

Aileen aroon ! 

I know a valley fair, 

Aileen aroon ! 
I knew a cottage there, 

Aileen aroon I 



202 



TIIE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



Far in that valley's shade 
I knew a gentle maid, 
Flower of the hazel glade, 
Aileen aroon ! 

Who in the song so sweet, 

Aileen aroon ! 
"Who in the dance so sweet, 

Aileen aroon ! 
Dear were her charms to me, 
Dearer her laughter free, 
Dearest her constancy, 
Aileen aroon ! 

Were she no longer true, 
Aileen aroon ! 

What should her lover do ? 
Aileen aroon ! 

Fly with his broken chain 

Far o'er the sounding main, 

Never to love again, 

Aileen aroon ! 

Youth must with time decay, 
Aileen aroon ! 

Beauty must fade away, 
Aileen aroon ! 

©astles are sack'd in war, 

Chieftains are scatter'd far, 

Truth is a fixed star, 
Aileen aroon ! 



KNOW YE NOT THAT LOVELY 
RIVER. 1 

Air— "Xoy't wife of Aldivalloch." 

Know ye not that lovely river? 
Know ye not that smiling river ? 
Whose gentle flood, 
By cliff and wood, 
With wildering sound goes winding ever. 

Oh ! often yet with feeling strong, 
On that dear stream my memory ponders, 

And still I prize its murmuring song, 
For by my childhood's home it wanders. 
Know ye not, &c. 



1 These verses were written at the request of his sister, who 
wrote to him from America for new words for the old Scotch 
■fr of Roy'8 wifo of Aldivalloch. 



There's music in each wind that flows 

Within our native woodland breathing ; 
There's beauty in each flower that blows 

Around our native woodland wreathing. 
The memory of the brightest joys 

In childhood's happy morn that found us, 
Is dearer than the richest toys 

The present vainly sheds around us. 
Know ye not, &c. 

Oh, sister ! when 'mid doubts and fears, 

That haunt life's onward journey ever, 
I turn to those departed years, 

And that beloved and lonely river ; 
With sinking mind and bosom riven, 

And heart with lonely anguish aching ; 
It needs my long-taught hope in heaven 

To keep this weary heart from breaking ! 
Know ye not, &c. 



'TIS, IT IS THE SHANNON'S STREAM. 

'Tis, it is the Shannon's stream 

Brightly glancing, brightly glancis? 
See, oh, see the ruddy beam 

Upon its waters dancing '. 
Thus return'd from travel vain, 
Years of exile, years of pain, 
To see old Shannon's face again, 

Oh, the bliss entrancing ! 
Hail our own majestic stream, 

Flowing ever, flowing ever, 
Silent in the morning beam, 

Our own beloved river ! 

Fling thy rocky portals wide, 

Western ocean, western ocean; 
Bend ye hills, on either side, 

In solemn, deep devotion ; 
While before the rising gales 
On his heaving surface sails 
Half the wealth of Erin's vales, 

With undulating motion. 
Hail, our own beloved stream, 

Flowing ever, flowing ever, 
Silent in the morning beam, 

Our own majestic river ! 



THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



203 



On thy bosom deep and wide, 

Noble river, lordly river, 
Royal navies safe might ride, 

Green Erin's lovely river. 
Prond upon thy banks to dwell, 
Let me ring Ambition's knell, 
Lured by hope's illusive spell 

Again to wander, never. 
Hail, our own romantic stream, 

Plowing ever, flowing ever, 
Silent in the morning beam, 

Our own majestic river 1 

Let me from thy plaoid course, 

Gentle river, mighty river, 
Draw such truth of silent force 

As sophist uttered never. 
Thus, like thee, unchanging still, 
With tranquil breast and order'd will, 
My heaven-appointed course fulfil, 

Undeviating ever ! 
Hail, our own majestic stream, 

Flowing ever, flowing ever, 
Silent in the morning beam, 

Our own delightful river ! 



LOVE MY LOVE IN THE MORNING. 

I iove my love in the morning, 

For she like morn is fair — 
Her blushing cheek, its crimson streak, 

Its clouds her golden hair. 
Her glance, its beam, so soft and kind ; 

Her tears, its dewy showers ; 
And her voice, the tender whispering wind 

That stirs the early bowers. 

x love my love in the morning, 

I love my love at noon, 
For she is bright as the lord of light, 

Yet mild as autumn's moon : 
Her beauty is my bosom's sun, 

Her faith my fostering shade, 
And I will love my darling one, 

Till even the sun shall fade. 



I love my love in the morning, 
I love my love at even ; 



Her smile's soft play is like the ray 
That lights the western heaven : 

I loved her when the sun was high, 
I loved her when he rose ; 

But best of all when evening's sigh 
Was murmuring at its close. 



ORANGE AND GREEN. 

1 Erin, thy silent tear never shall cease — 
Erin, thy languid smile ne'er shall increase. 
Till, like the rainbow's light, 
Thy various tints unite, 
And form in heaven's sight 
One arch of peace 1" 

Thomas Moon 

The night was falling dreary 

In merry Bandon town, 
When in his cottage, weary, 

An Orangeman lay down. 
The summer sun in splendor 

Had set upon the vale, 
And shouts of " No surrender !" 

Arose upon the gale. 

Beside the waters, laving 

The feet of aged trees. 
The Orange banners waving, 

Flew boldly in the breeze — 
In mighty chorus meeting, 

A hundred voices join, 
And fife and drum were beating 

The Battle of the Boyne. 

Ha ! toward his cottage meing, 

What form is speedy now, 
From yonder thicket flying, 

With blood upon his brow ! 
"Hide — hide me, worthy stranger! 

Tho-igh green my color be, 
And in the day of danger 

May Heaven remember theo ! 

" In yonder vale contending, 
Alone against that crew, 

My life and limbs defending, 
An Orangeman I slew. 

Hark ! hear that, fearful warning 
There's death in every tone — 



204 



THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



Oh, save my life to morning, 

And Heaven prolong your own 1" 

The Orange heart was melted, 

In pity to the Green ; 
He heard the tale, and felt it, 

His very soul within. 
"Dread not that angry warning, 

Though death be in its tone — 
I'll save your life till morning, 

Or I will lose my own." 

Now, round his lowly dwelling 

The angry torrent press'd, 
A hundred voices swelling, 

The Orangeman address'd — 
"Arise, arise, and follow 

The chase along the plain 1 
In yonder stony hollow 

Your only son is slain !" 

With rising shouts they gather 

Upon the track amain, 
And leave the childless father 

Aghast with sudden pain. 
He seeks the righted stranger 

In covert where he lay — 
"Arise !" he said, " all danger 

Is gone and past away ! 

"I had a son — one only, 

One loved as my life, 
Thy hand has left me lonely 

In that accursed strife. 
I pledged my word to save thee, 

Until the storm should cease ; 
I keep the pledge I gave thee — 

Arise, and go in peace !" 

The stranger soon departed 

From that unhappy vale ; 
The father, broken-hearted, 

Lay brooding o'er that tale. 
Full twenty summers after 

To silver turn'd his beard ; 
And yet the sound of laughtei 

From him was never heard. 

The night was falling dreary, 
In merry Wexford town, 



When in his cabin, weary, 
A peasant laid him down. 

And many a voice was singing 
Aiong the summer vale, 

And Wexford town was ringing 
With shouts of " Granua Uile." 

Beside the waters laving 

The feet of aged trees, 
The green flag, gayly waving, 

Was spread against the breeze; 
In mighty chorus meeting, 

Loud voices fill'd the town, 
And fife and drum were beating, 

" Down, Orangemen, lie down f 

Hark ! 'mid the stirring clangor, 

That woke the echoes there, 
Loud voices, high in anger, 

Rise on the evening air. 
Like billows of the ocean, 

He sees them hurry on — 
And, 'mid the wild commotion, 

An Orangeman alone. 

" My hair," he said, " is hoary, 

And feeble is my hand, 
And I could tell a story 

Would shame your cruel band. 
Full twenty years and over 

Have changed my heart and brow, 
And I am grown a lover 

Of peace and concord now. 

" It was not thus I greeted 

Tour brother of the Green, 
When, fainting and debated, 

I freely took him in. 
I pledged my word io save hinv 

From y engeance /ashing on ; 
I kept the pledge I gave him, 

Though he had kill'd my son." 

That aged peasant beard him, 

And knew him as he stood ; 
Remembrance kindly stirr'd him, 

And tender gratitude. 
With gushing *ears of pleasure 

He pierced the listening train— 
I'm here to pay the measure 

Of kindness back a^ain !" 



THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



Upon his bosom falling, 

That old man's tears came down, 
Deep memory recalling 

That cot and fatal town. 
" The hand that would offend thee 

My being first shall end — 
I'm living to defend thee, 

My savior and my friend !" 

He said, and, slowly turning, 

Address'd the wondering crowd ; 
With fervent spirit burning, 

He told the tale aloud. 
Now press'd the warm beholders, 

Their aged foe to greet ; 
They raised him on their shoulders, 

And chair'd him through the street. 

As he had saved that stranger 

From peril scowling dim, 
So in his day of danger 

Did Heaven remember him. 
By joyous crowds attended, 

The worthy pair were seen, 
And their flags that day were blended 

Of Orange and of Green. 



SLEEP THAT LIKE THE COUCHED 
DOVE. 

Sleep, that like the couched dove, 

Broods o'er the weary eye, 
Dreams that with soft heavings move 

The heart of memory — 
Labor's guerdon, golden rest, 
Wrap thee in its downy vest ; 
Fall like comfort on thy brain, 
And sing the hush-song to thy pain ! 

Far from thee be startling fears, 
And dreams the guilty dream ; 
No banshee scare thy drowsy ears 

With her ill-omen'd scream. 
But tones of fairy minstrelsy 
Float like the ghosts of sound o'er thee, 
Soft as the chapel's distant bell, 
And lull thee to a sweet farewell. 



Ye, for whom the ashy hearth 

The fearful housewife clears — 
Ye, whose tiny sounds of mirth 
The nighted carman hears — 
Ye, whose pigmy hammers make 
The wonderers of the cottage wake — 
Noiseless be your airy flight, 
Silent as the still moonlight. 

Silent go and harmless come, 

Fairies of the stream — 
Ye, who love the winter gloom, 

Or the gay moonbeam — 
Hither bring your drowsy store, 
Gather'd from the bright lusmore, 
Shake o'er temples — soft and deep— 
The comfort of the poor man's sleep. 



GILLI MA CHREE. 

Gilli ma ehree, 

Sit down by me, 
We now are join'd, and ne'er shall sever 

This hearth's our own, 

Our hearts are one, 
And peace is ours forever ! 

When I was poor, 

Your father's door 
Was closed against your constant lover ; 

With care and pain 

I tried in vain 
My fortunes to recover. 
I said, " To other lands I'll roam, 

Where Fate may smile on me, love ;" 
I said, " Farewell, my own old home !" 
And I said, " Farewell to thee, love !" 

I might have said, 
My mountain maid, 
" Come, live with me, your own true lover; 
I know a spot, 
A silent cot, 
Your friends can ne'er discover. 
Where gently flows the waveless tide, 

By one small garden only ; 
Where the heron waves his wings so wide. 
And the innet sings so lonely 1" 



I 



206 



THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



I might have said, 
My mountain maid, 
" A father's right was never given 
True hearts to curse 
With tyrant force 
That have been blest in heaven." 
But then, I said, " In after-years, 

When thoughts of home shall find her, 
My love may mourn with secret tears 
Her friends thus left behind her." 

Oh ! no, I said, 
My own dear maid, 
For me, though all forlorn, forever 
That heart of thine 
Shall ne'er repine 
O'er slighted duty — never. 
From home and thee, though wandering far, 

A dreary fate be mine, love ; 
I'd rather live in endless war, 
Than buy my peace with thine, love. 

Far, far away, 

By night and day, 
I toil'd to win a golden treasure ; 

And golden gains 

Repaid my pains 
In fair and shining measure. 
I sought again my native land, 

Thy father welcom'd me, love ; 
I pour'd my gold into his hand, 

And my guerdon found in thee, love ? 

Sing Gilli ma chree, 

Sit down by me, 
We now are join'd, and ne'er shall sever; 

This hearth's our own, 

Our hearts are one, 
And peace is ours forever. 



OLD TIMES ! OLD TIMES I 

Old times ! old times ! the gay old times ! 

When I was young and free, 
And heard the merry Easter chimes 

Under the sally tree. 
My Sunday palm beside me placed — 

My cross upon my hand — 
A heart at rest within my breast, 

And sunshine on the land ! 

Old times ! Old times ! 



It is not that my fortunes flee, 

Nor that my cheek is pale — 
I mourn whene'er I think of thee, 

My darling, native vale ! — 
A wiser head I have, I know, 

Than when I loiter'd there ;" 
But in my wisdom there is woe, 

And in my knowledge care. 

Old times ! Old times ! 

I've lived to know my share of joy, 

To feel my share of pain — 
To learn that friendship's self can cloy, 

To love, and love in vain — 
To feel a pang and wear a smile, 

To tire of other climes — 
To like my own unhappy isle, 

And sing the gay old times ! 

Old times ! Old times ! 

And sure the land is nothing changed, 

The birds are singing still ; 
The flowers are springing where we ranged, 

There's sunshine on the hill ! 
The sally, waving o'er my head, 

Still sweetly shades my frame — 
But, ah, those happy days are fled, 

And I am not the same ! 

Old times ! Old times '. 

Oh, come again, ye merry times ! 

Sweet, sunny, fresh, and calm — 
And let me hear those Easter chimes, 

And wear my Sunday palm. 
If I could cry away mine eyes, 

My tears would flow in vain — 
If I could waste my heart in sighs, ' 

They'll never come again ! 

Old times ! Old times I 



A PLACE IN THY MEMORY, 
DEAREST. 

A place in thy memory, dearest, 

Is all that I claim, 
To pause and look back when thou nearest 

The sound of my name. 
Another may woo thee, nearer, 

Another may win and wear; 



THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



I care not though he be dearer, 
If I am remember'd there. 

Remember me — not as a lover 

Whose hope was cross'd, 
Whose bosom can never recover 

The light it hath lost; 
As the young bride remembers the mother 

She loves, though she never may see ; 
As a sister remembers a brother, 

O dearest ! remember me. 

Could I be thy true lover, dearest, 

Couldst thou smile on me, 
I would be the fondest and nearest 

That ever loved thee ! 
But a cloud on my pathway is glooming, 

That never must burst upon thine ; 
And Heaven, that made thee all-blooming, 

Ne'er made thee to wither on mine. 

Remember me, then ! — Oh, remember, 

My calm, light love ; 
Though bleak as the blasts of November 

My life may prove, 
That life will, though lonely, be sweet, 

If its brightest enjoyment should be 
A smile and kind word when we meet, 

And a place in thy memory. 



FOR I AM DESOLATE. 

The Christmas light 1 is burning bright 

In many a village pane, 
And many a cottage rings to-night 

With many a merry strain. 
Young boys and girls run laughing by, 

Their hearts and eyes elate — 
I can but think on mine, and sigh, 

For I am desolate. 

There's none to watch in our old cot, 

Beside the holy light, 
No tongue to bless the silent spot 

Against the parting night.* 



i The Christmas— a light blessed by the priest, and lighted 
It sunset, on Christmas eve, in Irish houses. It is a kind of 
jnpiety to snuff, touch, or use it for any profane purposes 
-after. 

1 It la the custom, in Irish Catholic families, to alt up till 



I've closed the door, and hither come 
To mourn my lonely fate ; 

I cannot bear my own old home, 
It is so desolate. 

I saw my father's eyes grow dim, 

And clasp'd my mother's knee; 
I saw my mother follow him — 

My husband wept with me. 
My husband did not long remain — 

His child was left me yet, 
But now my heart's last love is slain, 

And I am desolate ! 



THE BRIDAL WAKE. 

The priest stood at the marriage board 

The marriage cake was made, 
With meat the marriage chest was stored, 

Deck'd was the marriage bed. 
The old man sat beside the fire, 

The mother sat by him, 
The white bride was in gay attire ; 

But her dark eye was dim. 

Ululah! Ululahl 
The night falls quick — the sun is set ; 
Her love is on the water yet. 

I saw a red cloud in the west, 

Against the morning light — 
Heaven shield the youth that she loves best 

From evil chance to-night. 
The door flings wide ! Loud moans the gale J 

Wild fear her bosom fills — 
It is, it is the banshee's wail ! 

Over the darken'd hills. 

Ululah ! Ululah ! 
The day is past ! the night is dark ! 
The waves are mounting round his bark. 

The guests sit, round the bridal bed, 

And break the bridal cake ; 
But they sit by the dead man's head, 

And hold his weddins: wake. 



midnight on Christmas eve, in order to join in devotion at 
that hour. Few ceremonies of religion have a more splra- 
did and imposing effect than the morning mass, which, la 
cities, is celebrated sooa after the hour alluded to, and long 
before daybreak. 



THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



The bride is praying in her room, 

The place is silent all ! 
A fearful call ! a sudden doom ! 

Bridal and funeral. 

Ululah! Ululah! 
A youth to Kilfieheras" ta'en 
That never will return again. 



AD ARE. 

O sweet Adare, O lovely vale, 

O soft retreat of sylvan splendor ! 
Nor summer sun nor morning gale 

E'er hail'd a scene more softly tender. 
How shall I tell the thousand charms, 

Within thy verdant bosom dwelling, 
When lull'd in Nature's fostering arms, 

Soft peace abides and joy excelling ! 

Ye morning airs, how sweet at dawn 

The slumbering boughs your song awaken, 
Or linger o'er the silent lawn, 

With odor of the harebell taken ! 
Thou rising sun, how richly gleams 

Thy smile from far Knockfierna's mountain, 
O'er waving woods and bounding streams, 

And many a grove and glancing fountain ! 

Ye clouds of noon, how freshly there, 

When summer heats the open meadows, 
O'er parched hill and valley fair, 

All coolly lie your veiling shadows ! 
Ye rolling shades and vapors gray, 

Slow creeping o'er the golden heaven, 
How soft ye seal the eye of day, 

And wreathe the dusky brow of even ! 

In sweet Adare the jocund Spring 

His notes of odorous joy is breathing, 
The wild-birds in the woodland sing, 

The wild-flowers in the vale are breathing. 
There winds the Mague, as silver clear, 

Among the elms so sweetly flowing ; 
There fragrant in the early year 

Wild roses on the banks are blowing. 

The wild-duck seeks the sedgy bank 
Or dives beneath the glistening billow 



i of a churchyard near Kilkee. 



Where graceful droop and clustering danli 
The osier bright and rustling willow ; 

The hawthorn scents the leafy dale, 
In thicket lone the stag is belling, 

And sweet along the echoing vale 
The sound of vernal joy is swelling. 



THE POET'S PROPHECY. 

In the time of my boyhood I had a strange 
feeling, 

That I was to die in the noon of my day ; 
Not quietly into the silent grave stealing, 

But torn, like a blasted oak, sudden away. 

That, e'en in the hour when enjoyment was 
keenest, 
My lamp should quench suddenly hissing 
in gloom, 
That e'en when mine honors were freshest 
and greenest, 
A blight should rush over and scatter 
their bloom. 

It might be a fancy — it might be the gloom- 
ing 
Of dark visions taking the semblance of 
truth, 
And it might be the shade of the storm that 
is coming, 
Cast thus in its morn through the sunshine 
of youth. 

But be it a dream or a mystic revealing, 
The bodement has haunted me year after 
year, 
And whenever my bosom with rapture was 
filling, 
I paused for the footfall of fate at mine ear. 

With this feeling upon me all feverish and 
glowing, 
I rush'd up the rugged way panting to 
Fame, 
I snatch'd at my laurels while yet they were 
growing, 
And won for my guerdon the half of a 
name. 



THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



My triumphs I view'd from the least to the 
brightest, 
As gay flowers pluck'd from the fingers of 
Death, 
And whenever Joy's garments flow'd richest 
and lightest, 
I look'd for the skeleton lurking beneath. 

Oh, friend of my 'heart ! if that doom should 
fall on me, 
And thou shouldst live on to remember 
my love — 
Come oft to the tomb when the turf lies upon 
me, 
And list to the even wind mourning above. 

Lie down by that bank where the river is 
creeping 
All fearfully under the still autumn tree, 
"When each leaf in the sunset is silently 



And sigh for departed days — thinking of 



But when, o'er the minstrel, thou'rt lonelily 
sighing, 
Forgive, if his failings should flash on thy 
brain, 
Remember the heart that beneath thee is 
lying 
Can never awake to offend thee again. 

Remember how freely that heart that to 
others 
Was dark as the tempest-dawn frowning 
above, 
Burst open to thine with the zeal of a broth- 
er's, 
And show'd all its hues in the light of thy 
love. 



TWILIGHT SONG. 

Dewy twilight ! silent hour! 
Welcome to our cottage bower ! 
See, along the lonely meadow, 
Gl.ost-like, falls the lengthen'd shadow, 
While the sun, with level shine, 
Turns the stream to rosy wine ; 



And from yonder busy town 
Homeward hies the lazy clown. 

Hark ! along the dewy ground 
Steals the sheep-bell's drowsy sound ; 
While the ploughman, late returning, 
Sees his cheerful fagot burning, 
And his dame, with kindly smile, 
Meets him by the rustic stile ; 
While beneath the hawthorn mut« 
Swells the peasant's merry flute. 

Lass, from market homeward speed ; 
Traveller, urge thy lagging steed — 
Fly the dark wood's lurking danger; 
Churl, receive the 'nighted stranger — 
He with merry song and jest 
Will repay thy niggard feast, 
And the eye of Heaven above 
Smile upon the deed of love. 

Hour of beauty ! hour of peace ! 
Hour when care and labor cease ; 
When around her hush'd dominion 
Nature spreads her brooding pinion, 
While a thousand angel eyes 
Wake to watch us from the skies, 
Till the reason centres there, 
And the heart is moved to prayer. 



THE MOTHER'S LAMENT. 

My darling, my darling, while silence is on 

the moor, 
And lone in the sunshine, I sit by our cabin 

door; 
When evening falls quiet, and calm overland 

and sea, 
My darling, my darling, I think of past times 

and thee ! 

Here, while on this cold shore, I wear out my 
lonely hours, 

My child in the heavens is spreading my bed 
with flowers; 

All weary my bosom is grown of this friend- 
less clime — 

But I long not to leave it ; for that were a 
shame and crime. 



THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



They boar to the churchyard the youth in 


The fancy that ranges, 


their health away — 


Ends where it began ; 


1 know where a fruit hangs more ripe for the 


But the mind that ne'er changes 


grave than they — 


Brings glory to man. 


But I wish not for death, for my spirit is all 




resign'd, 




And the hope that stays with me gives peace 




to my ag6d mind. 






THE PHANTOM CITY. 


My darling, my darling, God gave to my 




feeble age 


A story I heard on the cliffs of the west, 


A prop for my faint heart, a stay in my pil- 


That oft, through the breakers dividing, 


grimage ; 


A city is seen on the ocean's wild breast 


.M7 darling, my darling, God takes back his 


In turreted majesty riding. 


gift again — 


But brief is the glimpse of that phantom so 


And my heart may be broken, but ne'er shall 


bright, 


my will complain. 


Soon close the white waters to screen it, 




And the bodement, they say, of the wonder- 




ful sight, 




Is death to the eyes that have seen it. 


YOU NEVER BADE ME HOPE, 'TIS 


I said, when they told me the wonderful tale, 


TRUE. 


My country, is this not thy story ? 


You never bade me hope, 'tis true — 


Thus oft, through the breakers of discord, 


I ask'd you not to swear ; 


we hail 


But I look'd in those eyes of blue, 
And read a promise there. 


A promise of peace and of glory. 


Soon gulphed in those waters of hatred again 


No longer our fancy can find it, 


The vow should bind with maiden sighs 
That maiden's lips have spoken — 


And woe to our hearts for the vision so vain ; 


For ruin and death come behind it. 


But that which looks from maiden's eyes 




Should last of all be broken ! 








WAR! WAR! HORRID WAR! 


f JKE THE OAK BY THE FOUNTAIN. 


War ! War ! Horrid war ! 




Fly our lovely plain, 


Like the oak by the fountain, 


Guide fleet and far 


In sunshine and storm ; 


Thy fiery car, 


Like the rock on the mountain, 


And never come again, 


Unchanging in form ; 


And never, 


Like the course of the river, 


Never come again ! 


Through ages the same ; 




Like the mist, mounting ever 


Peace ! Peace ! smiling Peace ! 


To heaven, whence it came. 


Bless our lonely plain, 




Guide swiftly here 


So firm be thy merit, 


Thy mild career, 


So changeless thy soul ; 


And never go again ! 


So constant thy spirit, 


And never, 


While seasons shall roll ; 


Never go again 1 



THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



211 



GONE ! GONE ! FOREVER GONE. 

Gone, gone, forever gone 
Are the hopes I cherish'd, 

Changed like the sunny dawn, 
In Sudden showers perish'd. 

Wither'd is the early flower, 
Like a bright lake broken, 

Faded like a happy hour, 
Or Love's secret spoken. 

Life ! what a cheat art thou ! 

On youthful fancy stealing, 
A prodigal in promise now; 

A miser in fulfilling ! 



SONNETS. 

ADDRESSED TO FRIENDS IN AMERICA, AND PRE- 
FIXED TO " CARD-DRAWING," ONE OF THE 
TALES OF THE MTJNSTER FESTIVALS. 

Friends far away — and late in life exiled — 
Whene'er these scatter'd pages meet your 
gaze, 
Think of the scenes where early fortune 
smiled — 
The land that was your home in happier 
days — 
The sloping lawn, to which the tired rays 
Of evening stole o'er Shannon's sheeted 
flood— 
The hills of Clare, that in its softening haze 
Look'd vapor-like and dim— the lonely 
wood — 
The cliff-bound Inch — the chapel in the glen, 
Where oft, with bare and reverent locks, 

we stood, 
To hear the Eternal truths — the small dark 
maze 
Of the wild stream that clipp'd the blossom'd 
plain, 
And toiling through the varied solitude, 
Upraised its hundred silver tongues and 
babbled praise. 

That home is desolate ! our quiet hearth 
Is ruinous and cold — and many a sight 



And many a sound are met of vulgar mirth, 
Where once your gentle laughter cheer'd 
the night. 
It is as with your country. The calm light 
Of social peace for her is quenched too — 
Rude Discord blots her scenes of old de- 
light, 
Her gentle virtues scared away — like 
you. 
Remember her when in this tale you meet 
The story of a straggling right — of ties 
Fast bound and swiftly rent — of joy — of 
pain — 
Legends which by the cottage fire sound 
sweet ; 
Nor let the hand that wakes those memo- 
ries 
(In faint but fond essay) be unrem-ember'd 
then. 



WAR SONG OF O'DRISCOL. 

From the shieling that stands by the lone 

mountain river, 
Hurry, hurry down with the axe and the 

quiver ; 
From the deep-seated Coom, from the storm- 

, beaten highland, 
Hurry, hurry down to the shores of your 
island. 

Hurry down, hurry down t 
Hurry, hurry, &c. 

Galloglach and Kern, hurry down to the 

sea — 
There the hungry Raven's beak is gaping 

for a prey ; 
Farrah ! to the onset ! Farrah ! to the 

shore ! 
Feast him with the pirate's flesh, the bird of 

gloom and gore ! 

Hurry down, hurry down ! 
Hurry down, &c. 

Hurry, for the slaves of Bel are mustering 

to meet ye ; 
Hurry by the beaten cliff, the Nordman 

longs to greet ye ; 



POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



Hurry nom the mountain ! hurry, hurry 

from the plain ! 
Weioome him, and never let him leave our 
lftod again ! 

Hurry down, hurry down ! 
Hurry down, &c. 

On the land a sulky wolf, and in the sea a 

shark, 
Hew the ruffian spoiler down, and burn his 

gory bark ! 
Slayer of the unresisting ! ravager profane ! 
Leave the White sea-tyrant's limbs to 
moulder on the plain. 

Hurry down, hurry down ! 
Hurry down, &c. 



MY SPIRIT IS OF PENSIVE MOULD. 

My spirit is of pensive mould, 

I cannot laugh as once of old, 

When sporting o'er some woodland scene, 

A child I trod the dewy green. 

I cannot sing my merry lay, 
As in that past unconscious day ; 
For time has laid existence bare, 
And shown me sorrow lurking there. 

I would I were the lonely breeze 
That mourns among the leafless trees, 
That I might sigh from morn till night 
O'er vanish'd peace and lost delight. 

I would I were the heavy shower 
That falls in spring on leaf and bower, 
That I might weep the livelong day 
For erring man and hope's d^.cay : 

For all the woe beneath the sun, 
For all the wrong to virtue done, 
For every soul to falsehood gain'd, 
For every heart by evil Ptain'd : 

For man by man in durance held, 
For early dreams of joy dispell'd, 
For all the hope the world awakes 
In youthful hearts, and after breaks. 



But still, though hate, and fraud, and stritfc 
Have stain'd the shining web of life, 
Sweet Hope the glowing woof renews, 
In all its old, enchanting hues. 

Flow on, flow on, thou shining stream ! 
Beyond life's dark and changeful dream. 
There is a hope, there is a joy, 
This faithless world can ne'er destroy. 

Sigh on, sigh on, ye gentle winds . 
For stainless hearts and faithful mindf* 
There is a bliss abiding true, 
That shall not pass and die like you. 

Shine on, shine on, thou glorious sun i 
When Day his latest course has run, 
On sinless hearts shall rise a light 
That ne'er shall set in gloomy night 



IMPROMPTU. 

ON SEEING AN IRIS FORMED BY THE SPRAY 0» 
THE OCEAN AT MILTOWN MALBAY. 

Oh, sun-color'd breaker! when gazing on 
thee 

I think of the Eastern story, 
How beauty arose from the foam of the sea — 

A creature of light and of glory. 
But, hark ! a hoarse answer is sect from the 
wave, 

" No — Venus was never my daughter — 
To golden-hair'd Iris her being I gave, 

Behold where she shines o'er the water." 



FRIENDSHIP. 

A weary time hath pass'd since last we 
parted ; 
Thy gentle eye was fill'd with sorrow, and 
I did not speak, but press'd thy trembling 
hand, 
Even in that hour of rapture, broken hearted. 
I have not seen thee since — for thou art 
changed ; 
There sits a coldness on thy lip and brow — 



POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



213 



The look, the tone, the smile, are alter'd 
now, 
And all about, within thee, quite estranged. 
I have not seen thee since — although per- 
chance, 
Among the heartless and the vain, on me 
All coldly courteous lights thy lovely glance. 
Yet art thou happier ? Oh, if such may be 
Tbe love that Friendship vows — give me 

again 
My heart, my days of peace, my lute, and 
listening plain. 



FAME. 

Why hast thou lured me on, fond muse, to 
quit 
The path of plain dull worldly sense, and be 
A wanderer through the realms of thought 
with thee ; 
While hearts that never knew thy visitings 
sweet, 
Cold souls that mock thy quiet melancholy, 
Win their bright way up Fortune's glitter- 
ing wheel ; 
And we sit lingering here in darkness still, 
Scorn'd by the bustling sons of wealth and 
folly? 
Tet still thou whisperest in mine ear, " The 
day — 
The day may be at hand when thou and I 
(The season of expectant pain gone by) 
Shall tread to Joy's bright porch a smiling 

way, 
And rising, not as once with hurried wing, 
To purer skies aspire, and hail a lovelier 
spring." 



WRITTEN IN AD ARE IN 1820. 

I look'd upon a dark and sullen sea 

Over whose slumbering wave the night's 

mists hung, 
Till from the morn's gray breast a fresh 
wind sprung 
And sought its brightening bosom joyously ; 



Then fled the mists its quickening breath 
before ; 
The glad sea rose to meet it — and each 

wave, 
Retiring from the sweet caress it gave, 
Made summer music to the listening shore. 
So slept my soul, unmindful of thy reign ; 
But the sweet breath of thy celestial grace, 
Hath risen — oh, let its quickening spirit 
chase 
From that dark seat, each mist and secret 

stain, 
Till, as yon clear water, mirror' d fair, 
Heaven sees its own calm hues reflected 
there. 



THE WAKE OF THE ABSENT. 1 

The dismal yew and cypress tall, 

Wave o'er the churchyard lone, 
Where rest our friends and fathers all, 

Beneath the funeral stone. 
Unvex'd in holy ground they sleep : 

Oh, early lost ! o'er thee 
No sorrowing friend shall ever weep, 

Nor stranger bend the knee. 
Mo chuma ! lorn am I ! 
Hoarse dashing rolls the salt-sea wave 
Over our perish'd darling's grave. 

The winds the sullen deep that tore 

His death-song chanted loud, 
The weeds that line the clifted shore 

Were all his burial-shroud ; 
For friendly wail and holy dirge 

And long lament of love, 
Around him roar'd the angry surge, 

The curlew scream'd above. 
Mo chuma ! lorn am I, 
My grief would turn to rapture now, 
Might I but touch that pallid brow. 

The stream-born bubbles soonest burst, 
That earliest left the source : 



1 It Is the custom among the peasantry in some parts of 
Ireland, when any member of a family has been lost at sea (or 
in any other way which renders the performance of the cus- 
tomary funeral rite impossible), to celebrate the " wake," 
tly in the same way as if the corpse was actually present 



POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



Buds earliest blown are faded first, 

In Nature's wonted course ; 
With guarded pace her seasons creep, 

By slow decay expire, 
The young above the aged weep, 

The son above the sire : 
Mo chuma ! lorn am I, 
That death a backward course should hold, 
To smite the young and spare the old. 



ON PULLING SOME CAMPANULAS 
IN A LADY'S GARDEN. 

Oh, weeds will haunt the loveliest scene 

The summer sun can see, 
And clouds will sometimes come between 

The truest friends that be. 
And thoughts unkind will come perchance, 

And haply words of blame, 
For pride is man's inheritance, 

And frailty is his name. 

Yet while I pace this leafy vale, 

That nursed thine infancy — 
And hear in every passing gale 

A whisper'd sound of thee, 
My 'nighted bosom wakes anew 

To Feeling's genial ray, 
And each dark mist on Memory's view 

Melts into light away. 

The flowers that grace this shaded spot — 

Low, lovely, and obscure — 
Are like the joys thy friendship brought — 

Unboasted, sweet, and pure. 
Now wither'd is their autumn blow, 

And changed their simple hue, 
Ah ! must it e'er be mine to know 

Their type is faded too ? 

Yet should those well-remember'd hours 

Return to me no more, 
And, like those cull'd and faded flowers, 

Their day of life be o'er — 
In memory's fragrant shrine conceal'd, 

A sweeter joy they give, 
Than aught the world again can yield 

Or I again receive. 



THEY SPEAK OF SCOTLAND'S 
HEROES OLD. 

They speak of Scotland's heroes old, 
Struggling to make their country free, 

And in that hour my heart grows cold, 
For, Erin, then I think of thee ! 

They boast their Bruce of Bannockburn, 
Their noble Knight of Ellerslie ; 

To Erin's sons I proudly turn — 
My country, then I smile for thee. 

They boast, though joiu'd to England'! 
power, 

Scotland ne'er bow'd to slavery ; 
An equal league in danger's hour — 

My country, then I weep for thee. 

And when they point to our fair Isle, 
And say no patriot hearts have we, 

That party stains the work defile — 
My country, then I blush for thee. 

But Hope says, " Blush or tear shall never 
Sully approving Fame's decree." 

When Freedom's word her bond shall sever — 
My country, then I'll joy in thee. 

But oh ! be Scotland honor'd long, 

Be envy ever far from me, 
My simple lay meant her no wrong — 

My country, it was but for thee ! 



O'BRAZIL, THE ISLE OF THE BLEST. 

A SPECTRE ISLAND, SAID TO BE SOMETIMES VISD3LK 
ON THE VERGE OF THE WESTERN HORI- 
ZON, IN THE ATLANTIC, FROM 
THE ISLES ON ARRAN. 

On the ocean that hollows the rocks where 

ye dwell, 
A shadowy land has appear'd, as they tell ; 
Men thought it a region of sunshine and rest, 
And they call'd it O'Brazil, the Isle of the 

Blest. 
From year unto year, on the ocean's blue 

rim, 
The beautiful spectre show'd lovely and dim ; 



POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



215 



The golden clouds curtain'd the deep where 

it lay, 
And it look'd like an Eden, away, far away ! 

A peasant who heard of the wonderful tale, 
In the breeze of the Orient loosen'd his sail ; 
From Ara, the holy, he turn'd to the west, 
For though Ara was holy, O'Brazil was blest. 
He heard not the voices that call'd from the 

shore — 
He heard not the rising wind's menacing roar ; 
Home, kindred, and safety he left on that day, 
And he sped to O'Brazil, away, far away ! 

Morn rose on the deep, and that shadowy 

Isle, 
O'er the faint rim of distance reflected its 

smile ; 
Noon burn'd on the wave, and that shadowy 

shore 
Seem'd lovelily distant, and faint as before : 
Lone evening came down on the wanderer's 

track, 
And to Ara again he look'd timidly back ; 
Oh ! far on the verge of the ocean it lay, 
Yet the Isle of the Blest was away, far away ! 

Rash dreamer, return ! O ye winds of the 

main, 
Bear him back to his own peaceful Ara 

again ; 
Rash fool ! for a vision of fanciful bliss, 
To barter thy calm life of labor and peace. 
The warning of reason was spoken in vain, 
He never revisited Ara again ; 
Night fell on the deep, amidst tempest and 

spray, 
And he died on the waters, away, far away ! 

To you, gentle friends, need I pause to reveal 
The lessons of prudence my verses conceal ; 
How the phantom of pleasure seen distant 

in youth, 
Oft lures a weak heart from the circle of 

truth. 
All lovely it seems like that shadowy Isle, 
And the eye of the wisest is caught by its 

smile ; 
But, ah ! for the heart it has tempted to stray 
From the sweet home of duty, away, far 

awayl 



Poor friendless adventurer ! vainly might he 
Look back to green Ara, along the wild sea ; 
But the wandering heart has a guardian 

above, 
Who, though erring, remembers the child of 

his love. 
Oh, who at the proffer of safety would spurn, 
When all that he asks is the will to return ; 
To follow a phantom, from day unto day, 
And die in the tempest, away, far away ! 



LINES ADDRESSED TO A SEAGULL, 

SEEN OFF THE CLIFFS OF MOHEH, IN THE 
COUNTY OF CLAEE. 

White bird of the tempest ! oh, beautiful 

thing, 
With the bosom of snow, and the motionless 

wing ; 
Now sweeping the billow, now floating on 

high, 
Now bathing thy plumes in the light of the 

sky; 
Now poising o'er ocean thy delicate form, 
Now breasting the surge with thy bosom so 

warm; 
Now darting aloft, with a heavenly scorn, 
Now shooting along, like a ray of the morn ; 
Now lost in the folds of the cloud-curtain'd 

dome, 
Now floating abroad like a flake of the foam ; 
Now silently poised o'er the war of the main, 
Like the spirit of charity brooding o'er pain ; 
Now gliding with pinion, all silently furl'd, 
Like an Angel descending to comfort the 

world ! 
Thou seem'st to my spirit — as upward I gaze, 
And see thee, now clothed in mellowest rays, 
Now lost in the storm-driven vapors that fly 
Like hosts that are routed across the broad 

sky — 
Like a pure spirit, true to its virtue and faith 
'Mid the tempests of nature, of passion, and 

death ! 

Rise ! beautiful emblem of purity ! rise 
On the sweet winds of heaven, to thine own 
brilliant skies, 



THE POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



Still higher ! still higher ! till lost to our 
sight, 

Thou hidest thy wings in a mantle of light ; 

And I think how a pure spirit gazing on thee 

Must long for the moment — the joyous and 
free — 

When the soul, disembodied from nature, 
shall spring, 

Unfetter'd, at once to her Maker and King ; 

When the bright day of service and suffer- 
ing past, 

Shapes fairer than thine shall shine round 
her at last, 

While the standard of battle triumphantly 
furl'd, 

She smiles like a victor, serene on the world ! 



THE SISTER OF CHARITY. 

She once was a lady of honor and wealth, 

Bright glow'd on her features the roses of 
health ; 

Her vesture was blended of silk and of gold, 

And her motion shook perfume from every 
fold : 

Joy revell'd around her — love shone at her 
side, 

And gay was her smile, as the glance of a 
bride ; 

And light was her step, in the mirth-sound- 
ing hall, 

When she heard of the daughters of Vincent 
de Paul. 

She felt in her spirit the summons of grace, 
That call'd her to live for the suffering race ; 
And, heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of 

home, 
Rose quickly, like Mary, and answer'd, " I 

come !" 
She put from her person the trappings of 

pride, 
And pass'd from her home with the joy of a 

bride ; 
Nor wept at the threshold, as onward she 

moved, 
For her heai-t was on fire, in the cause it 

approved. 



Lost ever to fashion — to vanity lost, 

That beauty that once was the song and the 

toast, 
No more in the ball-room that figure we meet, 
But gliding at dusk to the wretch's retreat. 
Forgot in the halls is that high-sounding 

name, 
For the Sister of Charity blushes at fame ; 
Forgot are the claims of her riches and birth, 
For she barters for Heaven the glory of earth. 

Those feetthatto music could gracefully move, 
Now bear her alone on the mission of love ; 
Those hands that once dangled the perfume 

and gem, 
Are tending the helpless or lifted for them ; 
That voice that once echo'd the song of the 

vain, 
Now whispers relief to the bosom of pain; 
And the hair that was shining with diamond 

and pearl, 
Is wet with the tears of the penitent girl. 

Her down-bed a pallet ; her trinkets a bead ; 
Her lustre — one taper that serves her to read ; 
Her sculpture — the crucifix nail'd by her bed ; 
Her paintings — one print of the thora- 

crown'd head; 
Her cushion — the pavement that wearies her 

knees ; 
Her music — the psalm, or the sigh of disease ; 
The delicate lacly lives mortified there, 
And the feast is forsaken for fasting and 

prayer. 

Yet not to the service of heart and of mind 
Are the cares of that heaven-minded virgin 

confined ; 
Like Him whom she loves, to the mansions 

of grief 
She hastes with the tidings of joy and relief. 
She strengthens the weary — she comforts 

the weak, 
And soft is her voice in the ear of the sick ; 
Where want and affliction on mortals attend, 
The Sister of Charity there is a friend. 

Unshrinking where pestilence scatters his 

breath, 
Like an angel she moves, 'mid the vapor of 

death ; 



POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



217 



Where rings the loud musket, and 
the sword, 

Unfearing she walks, for she follows the 
Lord. 

How sweetly she bends o'er each plague- 
tainted face 

With looks that are lighted with holiest 
grace ! 

How kindly she dresses each suffering limb, 

For she sees in the wounded the image of 
Him! 

Behold her, ye worldly ! behold her, ye vain ! 
Who shrink from the pathway of virtue and 

pain ; 
Who yield up to pleasure your nights and 

your days, 
Forgetful of service, forgetful of praise. 
Ye lazy philosophers — self-seeking men — 
Ye fireside philanthropists, great at the pen, 
How stands in the balance your eloquence 

weigh'd, 
With the life and the deeds of that high-born 

maid? 



TO MEMORY. 

Oh, come ! thou sadly pleasing power, 
Companion of the twilight hour — 
Come, with thy sable garments flowing, 
Thy tearful smile, ail-brightly glowing— 
Come,with thy light and noiseless tread 
As one belonging to the dead ! 
Come, with thy bright, yet clouded eye, 
Grant me thine aid, sweet Memory ! 



s, and pictures all again, 
The " wood-fringed" lake — the r 

plain — 
The mountain flower — the valley's sm 
And lovely Inisfallen's isle. 
The rushing waters roaring by — 
Our ringing laugh — our raptured sigh 
The waveless sea — the varied shore — 
The dancing boat — the measured oar- 
The lofty bugle's rousing cry — 
The awaken'd mountains deep reply. 
Silence resuming then her reign, 
In awful p< wer, o'er hill and plain. 



i'ged 



She paints, and her unclouded dyes 
Can never fade, in feeling's eyes, 
For dipp'd in love's immortal stream, 
Through future years they'll brightly beam. 

Oh, prized and loved, though lately known, 
Forget not all, when we are gone — 
Think how our friendship's well-knit band 
Waited not time's confirming hand. 
Think how despising forms control, 
Heart sprung to heart, and soul to soul — 
And let tis greet thee, far or near, 
As cherish'd friend — as brother dear. 



THE SONG OF THE OLD MEN- 
DICANT. 

A matt of threescore, with the snow on hia 
brow, 
And the light of his aged eye dim, 
Oh, valley of sorrow ! what lure hast thou 
now, 
In thy changes of promise for him ? 
Gay Nature may smile, but his sight has 
grown old — 
Joy sound, but his hearing is dull ; 
And pleasure may feign, but his bosom is 
cold, 
And the cup of his weariness full. 

Once warm with the pulses of young twenty- 
three, 
With plenty and ease in thy train, 
Thy fair visions wore an enchantment for me 

That never can gild them again. 
For changed are my fortunes, and early and 
late 
• From dwelling to dwelling I go : 
And I knock with my staff at our first 
mother's gate, 
And I ask for a lodging below. 1 

Farewell to thee, Time ! in thy passage with 
me, 

One truth thou hast taught me to know, 
Though lovely the past and the future may be, 

The present is little but woe ; 

1 This beautiml sentiment occurs in Chancer. 



218 



POEMS OF GERALD GRIFFIN. 



For the sum of those joys that we find in 
life's way, 

"Where thy silent wing still wafts us on, 
Is a hope for to-morrow — a want for to-day, 

And a sigh for the times that are gone. 



WOULD YOU CHOOSE A FRIEND ? 

Would you choose a friend? Attend! attend! 

I'll teach you how to attain your end. 

He on whose lean and bloodless cheek 

The red grape leaves no laughing streak; 

On whose dull white brow and clouded eye 

Cold thought and care sit heavily ; 
Him you must flee : 
'Tween you and me, 

That man is very bad company. 



And he around whose jewell'd nose 
The blood of the red grape freely flows; 
Whose pursy frame as he fronts the board 
Shakes like a wine-sack newly stored, 
In whose half-shut, moist, and sparkling 

eye 
The wine-god revels cloudily 

Him you must flee : 
'Tween you and me, 
That man is very bad company. 

But he who takes his wine in measure, 
Mingling wit and sense with pleasure, 
Who likes good wine for the joy it brings, 
And merrily laughs and gayly sings : 
With heart and bumper always full, 
Never maudlin, never dull, 

Tour friend let him be : 
'Tween you and me, 
That man is excellent company. 



POEMS OF DEAN SWIFT. 



CORINNA. 

This day (the year I dare not tell) 
Apollo play'd the midwife's part ; 

Into the world Corinna fell, 

And he endow'd her with his art. 

But Cupid with a Satyr comes : 
Both softly to the cradle creep ; 

Both stroke her hands and rub her gums, 
"While the poor child lay fast asleep. 

Then Cupid thus : " This little maid 
Of love shall always speak and write." 

" And I pronounce" (the Satyr said) 
" The world shall feel her scratch and bite.' 



EPIGRAM. 

As Thomas was cudgell'd one day by his 

wife, 
He took to the streets and fled for his life : 
Tom's three dearest friends came by in the 

squabble, 
And saved him at once from the shrew and 

the rabble ; 
Then ventured to give him some sober ad- 
vice. 
But Tom is a person of honor so nice, 
Too wise to take counsel, too proud to take 

warning, 
That he sent to all three a challenge next 

morning ; 
Three duels he fought, thrice ventured his life ; 
Went home, and was cudgell'd again by his 

wife. 



LINES WRITTEN ON A WINDOW- 
PANE AT CHESTER. 

The Dean seems to have been roused to anger at Chester by 
the extortion of his landlord, if we may jadge by some linei 
beginning— 

My landlord is civil, 

But dear as the d 1 ; 

Your pockets grow empty, 
With nothing to tempt ye. 

And his rage seems to have been inflated to the degree of cob- 
signing the whole population to destruction as follows :— 

The walls of this town 

Are full of renown, 
And strangers delight to walk round 'em ; 

But as for the dwellers, 

Both buyers and sellers, 
For me, you may hang 'em or drown 'em. 



ON MRS. BIDDY FLOYD; 

OR THB 

EBCBIPT TO FORM A BEAUTY." 

When Cupid did his grandsire Jove entreat 
To form some beauty by a new receipt, 
Jove seat, and found, far in a country scene, 
Truth, innocence, good-nature, look serene : 
From which ingredients first the dexterous 

boy 
Pick'd the demure, the awkward, and the coy. 
The Graces from the Court did next provide 
Breeding, and wit, and air, and decent pride : 
These Venus clears from every spurious grain 
Of nice, coquet, affected, pert, and vain : 
Jove mix'd up all, and his best clay employ'd • 
Then call'd the happy composition Floyd. 



POEMS OF DEAN SWIFT. 



EPIGRAM 


III. When a paradox you stick to, 






I will never contradict you. 


ON THE BUSTS IN RICHMOND HERMITAGE. 






1732. 


IV. 


When I talk and you are heedless, 
I will show no anger needless. 


Lewis the living learned fed, 






And raised the scientific head : 

Our frugal Queen, 1 to save her meat, 


V. 


When your speeches are absurd, 
I will ne'er object a word. 


Exalts the head that cannot eat. 






VI. 


When you, furious, argue wrong, 







I will grieve and hold my tongue. 


LESBIA. 


vn. 


Not a jest or humorous story 
Will I ever tell before ye : 


Lesbia forever on me rails ; 




To be chidden for explaining, 


To talk of me she never fails : 




When you quite mistake the meaning 


Now, hang me, but, for all her art, 






I find that I have gain'd her heart. 


VIII. 


Never more will I suppose 
You can taste my verse or prose. 


My proof is thus : I plainly see ; 






The case is just the sam6 with me ; 


IX 


You no more at me shall fret, 


I curse her every hour sincerely, 




While I teach and you forget. 


Yet, hang me, but I love her dearly. 








X. 


You shall never hear me thunder 
When you blunder on, and blunder. 




XI. Show your poverty of spirit, 


TWELVE ARTICLES. 




And in dress place all your merit ; 
Give yourself ten thousand airs ; 


I. Lest it may more quarrels breed, 




That with me shall break no squares. 


I will never hear you read. 








XII Never will I erive advice 


IL By disputing I will never, 




Till you please to ask me thrice : 


To convince you, once endeavor. 




Which if you in scorn reject, 


' Qnt^n 4jU)« 


'Twill be just as I expect. 




p .3 r xg»pjniaji JgJ ia AiuJLl* J "T1IM 



t! 



LEfienaR proug.) 






# : «t- 




THE POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 

BETTER KNOWN AS "FATHER PROUT." 



VERT-VERT, THE PARROT. 



FROM THE FRENCH OF THE JESUIT GRE8SET. 



ffijs otfgfnal fiiinocencc. 

^Alas ! what evils I discern in 
Too great an aptitude for learning! 
And fain would all the ills unravel 
That aye ensue from foreign travel ; 
Far happier is the man who tarries 
Quiet withiu his household "Lares :" 
Read, and you'll find how virtue vanishes, 
How foreign vice all goodness banishes, 
And how abroad young heads will grow dizzy, 
Proved in the underwritten Odyssey. 



In old Nevers, so famous for its 
Dark narrow streets and Gothic turrets, 
Close on the brink of Loire's young flood, 
Flourished a convent sisterhood 
Of Ursulines. Now in this order 
A parrot lived as parlor-boarder ; 
Brought in his childhood from the Antilles, 
And sheltered under convent mantles : 
Green were his feathers, green his pinions, 
And greener still were his opinions ; 
For vice had not yet sought to pervert 
This bird, who had been christened Vert-Vert, 
Nor could the wicked world defile him, 
Sate from its snares in this asylum. 
Fresh, in his teens, frank, gay, and gracious, 
At.d, to crown all, somewhat loquacious ; 
f we examine close, not one, or he, 
Had a vocation for a nunnery. 1 

The convent's kindness need I mention ? 
Need I detail each fond attention, 

' " P»r son caqnet digne d'etre en convent' 



Or count the tit-bits which in Lent he 
Swallowed remorseless and in plenty ! 
Plump was his carcass ; no, not higher 
Fed was their confessor, the friar ; 
And some even say that our young Hector 
Was far more loved than the " Director." ' 
Dear to each novice and each nun — 
He was the life and sou! of fun ; 
Though, to be sure, some hags censorious 
Would sometimes find him too uproarious. 
What did the parrot care for those old 
Dames, while he had for him the household! 
He had not yet made his " profession," 
Nor come to years called " of discretion ;" 
Therefore, unblamed, he ogled, flirted, 
And romped like any unconverted ; 
Nay sometimes, too, by the Lord Harry ! 
He'd pull their caps and " scapulary." 
But what in all his tricks seemed oddest, 
Was that at times he'd turn so modest, 
That to all bystanders the wight 
Appeared a finished hypocrite. 
In accent he did not resemble 
Kean, though he had the tones of Kemble ; 
But fain to do the sisters' biddings, 
He left the stage to Mrs. Siddons. 
Poet, historian, judge, financier, 
Four problems at a time he'd answer 
He had a faculty like Ca>sar's. 
Lord Althorp, baffling all his teazers, 
Could not surpass Vert- Vert in puzzling, 
"Goodrich" to him was but a gosling. 1 



« " Sonvent 1'oisem J'emporta sor Ie Pere." 

1 At this remote period it is forgotten that "Prosperity Eobin- 
Bon " was also known as " Goose Goodrich," when subsequently 
oh»necllor of the exchequer.— O. T 



222 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



Placed when at table near some vestal, 
His fare, be sure, was of the best all, — 
For every sister would endeavor 
To keep for him some sweet kors d'ceuvre. 
Kindly at heart, iu spite of vows and 
Cloisters, a nun is worth a thousand ! 
And aye, if Heaven would only lend her, 
I'd have a nun for a nurse tender! ' 

Then, when the shades of night would come on, 

And to their cells the sisters summon, 
ELippy the favored one whose grotto 
This sultan of a bird would trot to : 
Mostly the young ones' cells he toyed in 
(The aged sisterhood avoiding), 
Sure among all to find kind offices, — 
Still he was partial to the novices, 
And in their cells our anchorite 
Mostly cast author for the night ; 
Perched on the box that held the relics, he 
Slept without notion of indelicacy. 
Rare was his luck ; nor did he spoil it 
By flying from the morning toilet; 
Not that I can admit the fitness 
Of (at the toilet) a male witness ; 
But that I scruple in this history 
To shroud a single fact in mystery. 

Quick at all arts, our bird was rich at 
That best accomplishment, called chit-chat; 
For, though brought up within the cloister, 
His beak was not closed like an oyster, 
But, trippingly, without a stutter, 
The longest sentences would utter ; 
Pious withal, and moralizing 
His conversation was surprising ; 
None of your equivoques, no slander — 
To such vile tastes he scorned to pander ; 
But his tongue ran most smooth and nice on 
"Deo sit laus" and ''Kyrie eleison ;" 
The maxims he gave with best emphasis 
Were Suarez's or Thomas it Kempis's ; 
In Christmas carols he was famous, 
" Orate, fratres," and " Oremos ;" 
If in good humor, he was wont 
To give a stave from "■Think well on'tj"* 
Or, by particular desire, he 
Would chant the hymn of " Dies ira." 



1 **Les petlts 8oins, lea attentions fines, 
Sont nes, dit on, chez les Ursulines." 
t "Pensez-y-bten." or " Tliinlc well on't" as translated by tht 
titular bishop, Richard Challoner, is the most generally adopted 
devotional tract among the Catholics of these islands. — Pbot/t, 



Then in the choir he would amaze all 
By copying the tone so nasal 
In which the sainted sisters chanted— 
(At least that pious nun inv aunt did) 

fflns fatall JUnotont. 
The public soon began to ferret 
The hidden nest of so much merit, 
And, spite of all the nuns' endeavors, 
The fame of Vert- Vert filled all Nevers; 
Nay, from Moulines folks came to stare at 
The wondrous talent of this parrot; 
And to fresh visitors ad libitum 
Sister Sophie had to exhibit him. 
Drest in her tidiest robes, the virgin, 
Forth from the convent cells emerging, 
Brings the bright bird, and for his plumage 
First challenges unstinted homage ; 
Then to his eloquence adverts, — 
" "What preacher's can surpass Vert- Vert's ! 
Truly in oratory few men, 
Equal this learned catechumen; 
Fraught with the convent's choicest lessons, 
And stuffed with piety's quintessence ; 
A bird most quick of apprehension, 
With gifts and graces hard to mention : 
Say in what pulpit can you meet 
A Chrysostom half so discreet, 
Who'd follow in his ghostly mission 
So close the ' fathers and tradition ? ' " 
Silent meantime, the feathered hermit 
Waits for the sister's gracious permit, 
When, at a signal from his mentor, 
Quick on a course of speech he'll enter ; 
Not that he cares for human glory, 
Bent but to save his auditory ; 
Hence he pours forth with so much nnctiov 
That all his hearers feel compunction. 

Thus for a time did Vert-Vert dwell 
Safe in his holy citadelle ; 
Scholared like any well-bred abbe, 
And loved by many a cloistered Hebe ; 
You'd swear that he had crossed the same brk 1 
As any youth brought up in Cambridge.' 
Other monks starve themselves ; but his skin 
Was sleek like that of a Franciscan, 
And far more clean ; for this grave Solon 
Bathed every day in eau de Cologne. 

* Quart — Pont Attnomm t 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



Thus he indulged each guiltless gambol, 
Blessed had he ne'er been doomed to ramble ! 

For in his life there came a crisis 
Such as for all great men arises, — 
Such as what Nap to Russia led, 
Such as the " flight" of Mahomed ; 
O town of Nantz ! yes, to thy bosom 
We let him go, alas ! to lose him ! 
Edicts, O town famed for revoking, 
Still was Vert-Vert's loss more provoking! 
Dark be the day when our bright Don went 
From this to a far-distant convent ! 
Two words comprise that awful era — 
Words big with fate and woe — "II ira!" 
Yes, " he shall go ;" but, sisters ! mourn ye 
The dismal fruits of that sad journey, — 
Ills on which Nantz's nuns ne'er reckoned, 
When for the beauteous bird they beckoned. 

Fame, O Vert- Vert ! in evil humor, 
One day to Nantz had brought the rumor 
Of thy accomplishments, — '' acumen," 
" Novf," and " esprit," quite superhuman : 
All these reports but served to enhance 
Thy merits with the nuns of Nantz. 
How did a matter so unsuited 
For convent ears get hither bruited ! • 
Some may inquire. But " nuns are knowing,' 
"■And first to hear what gossip's going." l 
Forthwith they taxed their wits to elicit 
From the famed bird a friendly visit. 
Girls' wishes run in a brisk current, 
But a nun's fancy is a torrent ; s 
To get this bird they'd pawn the missal : 
Quick they indite a long epistle, 
Careful with softest things to fill it, 
And then with musk perfume the billet; 
Thus, to obtain their darling purpose, 
They send a writ of habeas corpus. 

Off goes the post. When will the answer 
Free them from doubt's corroding cancer t 
Nothing can equal their anxiety, 
Except, of course, their well-known piety. 
Things at Nevers meantime went harder 
Than well would suit such pious ardor ; 
It was no easy job to coax 
This parrot from the Nevers folks. 



; un feu qui devore, 
est cent Ibis pis enco 



What, take their toy from convent belles t 
Make Russia yield the Dardanelles ! 
Filch his good rifle from a " Suliote," 
Or drag her " Romeo" from a " Juliet ! " 
Make an attempt to take Gibraltar, 
Or try the old corn laws to alter ! 
This seemed to them, and eke to us, 
" Most wasteful and ridiculous." 
Long did the " chapter " sit in state, 
And on this point deliberate ; 
The junior members of the senate 
Set their fair faces quite again' it ; 
Refuse to yield a point so tender, 
And urge the motto — No surrender. 
The elder nuns feel no great scruple 
In parting with the charming pupil ; 
And as each grave affair of state runs 
Most on the verdict of the matrons, 
Small odds, I ween, and poor the chance 
Of keeping the dear bird from Nantz. 
Nor in my surmise am I far out — 
For by their vote off goes the parrot. 

En, ce terns la, a small canal-boai, 
Called by most chroniclers the " Talbot," 
(Talbot, a name well known in France !) 
Travelled between Nevers and Nantz. 
Vert-Vert took shipping in this craft, 
'Tis not said whether fore or aft ; 
But in a book as old as Massinger's 
We find a statement of the passengers ; 
These were — two Gascons and a piper, 
A sexton (a notorious swiper), 
A brace of children, and a nurse ; 
But what was infinitely worse, 
A dashing Cyprian ; while by her 
Sat a most jolly-looking friar.' 

For a poor bird brought up in purity 
'Twas a sad augur for futurity 
To meet, just free from his indentures, 
And in the first of his adventures, 
Such company as formed his hansel, — 
Two rogues ! a friar ! ! and a damsel 1 1 ! 
Birds the above were of a feather ; 
But to Vert-Vert 'twas altogether 
Such a strange aggregate of scandals 
As to be met but among Vandals ; 



' Une uourrice, un mo 
Pour un enfant qui i 
C'etait eehoir en dig: 



224 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY 



Rude was their talk, bereft of polish, 
And calculated to demolish 
All the fine notions and good-breeding 
Tauffht by the nuns in their sweet Eden. 
No Billingsgate surpassed the nurse's, 
Am! all the rest indulged in curses; 
Ear hath not heard sui'h vulgar gab in 
The nautie cell of any cabin. 
Silent and sad, the pensive bird, 
Shocked at their guilt, said not a word. 1 

Now he "of orders gray," accosting 

The parrot green, who seemed quite lost in 

The contemplation of man's wickedness. 

And the bright river's gliding liquidness, 

"Tip us a stave (quoth Tuck), my darling, 

Ain't you a parrot or a starling? 

1 f you don't talk, by the holy poker, 

I'll give that neck of yours a choker!" 

Scared by this threat from his propriety, 

Our pilgrim thinking with sobriety, 

That if he did not speak they'd make him, 

Answered the friar, Pax sit tecum! 

Here our reporter marks down after 

Poll's maiden-speech — "loud roars of laughter; 

And sure enough the bird so affable 

Conld hardly use a phrase more laughable. 

Talking of such, there are some rum ones 
That oft amuse the House of Commons : 
And since we lost " Sir Joseph Yorke," 
We've got great " Feargus" fresh from Cork,— 
A fellow honest, droll, and funny, 
Who would not sell for love or money 
His native land : nor, like vile Daniel, 
Fawn on Lord Althorp like a spaniel ; 
Flatter the mob, while the old fox 
Keeps an eye to the begging-box. 
Now 'tis a shame that such brave fellows, 
When they blow " agitation's " bellows, 
Should only meet with heartless scoffers, 
While cunning Daniel fills his coffers. 
But Kerrymen will e'er be apter 
At the conclusion of the chapter, 
While others bear the battle's brunt, 
To reap the spoil and fob the blunt. 



» This canal-boat, it would seem, was not a very refined or 
fashionable conveyance; it rather remindeth of Horace's voyage 
to Brundusiuin, anil of that line so applicable to the parrot's com- 
pany— 

"Repleiuin nantis, oauponthus, stquo maliirnis." 

O. T. 



This is an ephode concerning 

The parrot's want of worldly learning, 

In squandering his tropes and figures 

On a vile crew of heartless niggers. 

The " house'' heard once with more decorum 

Phil. Howard on "the Eoman forum."* 

Poll's brief address met lots of cavillers; 
Badgered by all his fellow-travellers, 
He tried to mend a speech so ominous 
By striking up with 'Dixit Dominus ! " 
But louder shouts of laughter follow, — 
This last roar beats the former hollow, 
And shows that it was bad economy 
To give a stave from Deuteronomy. 



Posed, not abashed, the bird refused to 
Indulge a scene he was not used to ; 
And, pondering on this strange reception, 
" There must," he thought, " be some decepti 
Iu the nuns' views of things rhetorical, 
And sister Rose is not an oracle. 
True wit, perhaps, lies not in ' matins? 
Nor is their school a school of Athens." 

Thus in this villanous receptacle 
The simple bird at once grew skeptical. 
Doubts lead to hell. The arch-deceiver 
Soon made of Poll an unbeliever ; 
And mixing thus in bad society, 
He took French leave of all his piety. 

His austere maxims soon he mollified, 
And all his old opinions qualified ; 
For he had learned to substitute 
For pious lore things more astute ; 
Nor was his conduct unimpeachable, 
For youth, alas ! is but too teachable ; 
And in the progress of his madness 
Soon he had reached the depths of badness. 
Such were his curses, such his evil 
Practices, that no ancient devil, * 
Plunged to the chiu when burning hot 
Into a holy water-pot, 
Could so blaspheme, or fire a volley 
Of oaths so drear and melancholy. 



' See "Mirror of Parliament" for this ingenious person's ma<rtea 
speech on Joo Hume's motion to alter and enlarge the old Hous* 
of Commons. " Sir, the Romans (a laugh)— I say the Roman* 
(loud laughter) nfter altered their Forum" (roars of ditto). But 
Heaven soon granted what Joe Hume desired, and the old rookery 
was burnt shortly after. 

' '• Bicnt.H il scut Jn 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



Must the bright blossoms, ripe aud ruddy, 
And the fair fruits of early study, 
Thus in !xeir summer season crossed, 
Meet a sad blight— a killing frost ? 
Must that vile demon, Moloch, oust 
Heaven from a young heart's holocaust?' 
And the glad hope of life's young promise 
Thus in the davvu of youth ebb from us? 
Such is, alas ! the sad and last trophy 
Of the young rake's supreme catastrophe ; 
For of what use are learning's laurels 
When a young man is without morals ? 
Bereft of virtue, and grown heinous, 
What signifies a brilliant genius ? 
lis but a case for wail and mourning, — 
'Tis but a brand fit for the burning ! 

Meantime the river wafts the barge, 
Fraught with its miscellaneous charge, 
Smoothly upon its broad expanse, 
Up to the, very quay of Nantz ; 
Fondly within the convent bowers 
The sisters calculate the hours, 
Chiding the breezes for their tardiness, 
And, in the height of their fool-hardiness, 
Picturing the bird as fancy painted — 
Lovely, reserved, polite, and sainted — 
Fit " UrMiline." And this, I trow, meant 
Enriched with every endowment ! 
Sadly, alas ! these nuns anointed 
Will find their fancy disappointed ; 
When, to meet all those hopes they drew on, 
They'll find a regular Don Juan ! 



&I)e atofiill 3Df»coberfe. 
Scarce in the port was this small craft 
On its arrival telegraphed, 
When, from the boat home to transfer him, 
Came the nuns' portress, " sister Jerome." 
Well did the parrot recognize 
The walk demure and downcast eyes ; 
Nor aught such saintly guidance relished 
A bird by worldly arts embellished ; 
Such was his taste for profane gayety, 
He'd rather much go with the laity. 



Fast to the bark he 
thence, 



clung ; but plucked 



He showed dire symptoms of reluctance, 
And, scandalizing each beholder, 
Bit the nun's cheek, and eke her shoulder!* 
Thus a black eagle once, 'tis said, 
Bore off the struggling Ganymtde. 8 
Thus was Vert-Vert, heart-sick and weary, 
Brought to the heavenly monastery. 
The bell and tidings both were tolled, 
And the nuns crowded, young and old, 
To feast their eyes with joy uncommon on 
This wondrous talkative phenomenon. 

Round the bright stranger, so amazing 
And so renowned, the sisters gazing, 
Praised the green glow which a warm latitude 
Gave to his neck, and liked his attitude. 
Some by his gorgeous tail are smitten. 
Some by his beak so beauteous bitten ! 
And none e'er dreamt of dole or harm in 
A bird so brilliant and so charming. f 

Shade of Spurzheim ! and thou, Lavater, j. 

Or Gall, of " bumps " the great creator ! 
Can ye explain how our young hero, 
With all the vices of a Nero, 
Seemed such a model of good-breeding, 
Thus quite astray the convent leading? 
Where on his head appeared, I ask from ye, 
The "nob" indicative of blasphemy? 
Methinks 'twould puzzle your ability 
To find his organ of scurrility. 

Meantime the abbess, to " draw out" 

A bird so modest and devout, 

With soothing air and tongue caressing 

The " pilgrim of the Loire " addressing, 

Broached the most edifying topics, 

To " start " this native of the tropics ; 

When, to their scandal and amaze, he 

Broke forth — " Morbleu ! those nuns are crazy!* 

(Showing how well he learnt his task ou 

The packet-boat from that vile Gascon !) 

" Fie ! brother poll !" with zeal outbursting, 

Exclaimed the abbess, dame Augustin ; 

But all the lady's sage rebukes 

Brief answer got from poll — " Gadzooks !* 

Nay, 'tis supposed, he nuttered, too, 

A word folks write with W. 



Lob uns dlsent b 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY 



Scared at the sound — " Sure as a gun, 

The bird's a demon !" cried the nun. 

*'0 the vile wretch! the naughty dog! 

He's surely Lucifer incog. 

What ! is the reprobate before us 

That bird so pious and decorous — 

So celebrated V — Here the pilgrim, 

Hearing sufficient to bewilder him, 

Wound up the sermon of the beldame 

By a conclusion heard but seldom — 

"Ventre Saint Gris !" "Parbleu !" and "Sacre!" 

Three oaths! and every one a whacker/ 

Still did the nuns, whose conscience tender 
Was much shocked at the young offender, 
Hoping he'd change his tone, and alter, 
Hang breathless round the sad defaulter: 
When, wrathful at their importunity, 
And grown audacious from impunity, 
He fired a broadside (holy Mary !) 
Drawn from Hell's own vocabulary ! 
Forth like a Congreve rocket burst, 
And stormed and swore, flared vp and cursed ! 
■ Stunned at these sounds of import stygian, 
The pious daughters of religion 
Fled from a scene so dreau, so horrid, 
iBut with a cross first sio-tied their forehead. 
'The younger sisters, mi Hi and meek, 
Thought that the culprit spoke in Greek; 
But the old matrons and " the bench " 
Knew every word was genuine French ; 
And ran in all directions, pell-mell, 
From a flood fit to overwhelm hell. 
'Twas by a fall that Mother Ruth 1 
Then lost her last remaining tooth. 



"Fine conduct this, and pretty guidance 1" 
Cried one of the most mortified ones; 
" Pray, is such language and such ritual 
Among the Nevers nuns habitual ? 
'Twas in our sisters most improper 
To tjach such curses — such a whopper! 
He shan't by me, for one, be hindered 
From being sent back to his kindred!" 
This prompt decree of Poll's proscription 
Was signed by general subscription. 
•Straight in a cage the nuns insert 
The guilty person of Vert- Vert; 

< "Tootes pensent etre a la fln do monde. 
Et Bur eon nez la mere Cunegonde 
Be laissant cheoir, perd 9a dernierc dentt" 



Some young ones wanted to detain him ; 
But the grim portress took " the paynim" 
Back to the boat, close in his litter ; 
'Tis not said this time that he bit her. 

Back to the convent of his youth, 
Sojourn of innocence and truth, 
Sails the green monster, scorned and hated, 
His heart with vice contaminated. 
Must I tell how, on his return, 
He scandalized his old sojourn ? 
And how the guardians of his infancy 
Wept o'er their quondam child's delinquency! 
What could be done? the elder-; ot'ten 
Met to consult how best to soften 
This obdurate and hardened sinner, 
Finished in vice ere a beginner! 8 
One mother counselled " to denounce 
And let the Inquisition pounce 
On the vile heretic ;" another 
Thought "it was best the bird to smother 1" 
Or " send the convict for his felonies 
Back to his native land — the colonies." 
But milder views prevailed. His sentence 
Was, that, until he showed repentance, 
" A solemn fast and frugal diet, 
Silence exact, and pensive quiet, 
Should be his lot ;" and, for a blister 
He got, as jailer, a lay-sister, 
Ugly as sin, bad-tempered, jealous, 
And in her scruples over-zealous. 
A jug of water and a carrot 
Was all the prog she'd give the parrot : 
But every eve when vesper-bell 
Called sister Rosalie from her cell, 
She to Vert- Vert would gain admittance, 
And bring of " comfits" a sweet pittance. 
Comfits ! alas ! can sweet confections 
Alter sour slavery's imperfections ? 
What are " preserves" to you or me, 
When locked up in the Marshalsea? 
The sternest virtue in the hulks, 
Though crammed with richest sweetmeats, sulks, 



Taught by his jailer and adversity, 
Poll saw the folly of perversity, 



* Implicat in Urminis. There mast have been a beglaxfag, elae 
bow conceive % finish (see Kant), unless the proposttloa of Ocel- 
lus Lncaous be adopted, viz., avapxov tat arsXnrattv r § *•*. 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONT. 



227 



And by degrees his heart relented : 
Duly, in fine, " the lad" repented. 
His Lent passed on, and sister Bridget 
Coaxed the old abbess to abridge it. 

The piodigal, reclaimed and free, 
Became again a prodigy, 
And gave more joy, by works and words, 
Than ninety-nine canary-birds, 
Until his death. Which last disaster 
(Nothing on earth endures!) came faster 
Then they imagined. The transition 
From a starved to a stuffed condition, 
From penitence to jollification, 
Brought on a lit of constipation. 
Some think he would be living still, 
If given a " Vegetable Pill ;" 
But from a short life, and a merry, 
Poll sailed one day per Charon's ferry. 



By tears from nuns' sweet eyelids wept, 
Happy in death this parrot slept, 
For him Elysium oped its portals, 
And there he talks among immortals. 
But I have read, that since that happy day 
(So writes Cornelius a Lapide, 1 
Proving, with commentary droll, 
The transmigration of the soul), 
That still Vert-Vert this earth doth haunt, 
Of convent bowers a visitant ; 
And that, gay novices among, 
He dwells, transformed into a tongue ! 



1 This author appears to have been a favorite with Prout, who 
takes every opportunity of recording his predilection. Had the Or- 
der, however, produced only such writers as Cornelius, we fear 
there would have been little mention of the Jesuits in connection 
with literature. Gresset's opinion on the matter Is oontained III 
an epistle to his confrere P. Boujeant, author of the Ingenious 
treatise Sur FAme dee Betet : 

Moins reverend qu'aiinable pere, 
Vous dont Tesprit, le caractero, 

Et ies airs, ne sont point montea 
Sur le ton sottenient austere 

I>e cent tristes paternites, 
Qui, manquant du talent de plaira, 

Et de toute legerete, 
Pour dissimuler la nrlscre 

D'un esprit sans amenite, 

Afflcbent la severite ; 
Et ne sortant de leur taniere 
Que sous la lugubre banniere 

De la grave lormalite, 
Heritlora do la trlste enclumo 

De quelque pedant Ignore, 
Beforgent quelque lourd voluma, 

Aux antres Latins en wire. 



THE SILKWORM. A POEM. 

From tha Latin or Jekohb Vida. 
CANTO FIRST. 



List to my lay, daughter of Lombardy, 
Hope of Gonzaga's house, fair Isabelle ! 

Graced with thy name, the simplest melody, 
Albeit from rural pipe or rustic shell, 
Might all the music of a court excel ; 

Light though the subject of my song may 
seem, 
'Tis one on which thy spirit loves to dwell ; 

Nor on a tiny insect dost thou deem 
Thy poet's labor lost, nor frivolous my theme. 



For thou dost often meditate how hence 
Commerce deriveth aliment ; how Art 

May minister to native opulence, 

The wealth of foreign lands to home impart, 
And make of Italy the general mart. 

These are thy goodly thoughts — how best to 
rais.e, 
Thy country's industry. A patriot heart 

Beat in thy gentle breast — no vulgar praise! 
Be then this spinner-worm the hero of my lay» 



Full many a century it crept, the child 
Of distant China or the torrid zone ; 

Wasted its web upon the woodlands wild, 
And spun its golden tissue all alone, 
Clothing no reptile's body but its own.* 

So crawled a brother-worm o'er mount and 
glen, 
Uncivilized, uncouth ; till, social grown, 

He sought the cities and the haunts of men- 
Science and Art soon tamed the forest denizen. 



Rescued from woods, now under friendly roof 
Fostered and fed, and sheltered from the 
blast, 
Full soon the wondrous wealth of warp and 
woof — 
Wealth by these puny laborers amassed, 
Repaid the hand that spread their green re- 
past: 
Right merrily they plied their jocund toil, 



1 Tenui noc honos nee gloria fll» 1 



PdEMS OF FhANCIS MAHONY. 



And from their mouths the silken treasures* 

CSISt, 

Twisting their canny thread in many a coil, 
While men looked on arid smiled, and hailed the 
shining spoil. 



Sweet is the poet's ministry to teach 
How the wee operatives should be fed ; 

Their wants and chauges ; what befitteth each ; 
What mysteries attend the genial bed, 
And how successive progenies are bred. 

Happy if he his countrymen engage 

In paths of peace and industry to tread ; 

Happier the poet still, if o'er his page 
Fair Isabella's een shed radiant patronage ! 



Thou, then, who wouldst possess a creeping 
flock 
Of silken sheep, their glossy fleece to shear, 
Learn of their days how scanty is the stock : 
Barely two months of each recurring year 
Make up the measure of their brief career ; 
They spin their little hour, they weave their 
ball, 
And, when their task is done, then disap- 
pear 
Within that silken dome's sepulchral hall ; 
And the third moon looks out upon their funeral. 



Theirs is, in truth, a melancholy lot, 

Never the offspring of their loves to see ! 

The parent of a thousand sons may not 
Spectator of his children's gambols be, 
Or hail the birth of his young family. 

From orphan-eggs, fruit of a fond embrac*, 
Spontaneous hatched, an insect tenantry 

Creep forth, their sires departed to replace : 
Thus, posthumously born, springs up an annual 



Still watchful lest their birth be premature, 
From the sun's wistful eye remove the seed, 

While yet the season wavers insecure, 

While yet no leaves have budded forth to 

feed 
With juicy provender the tender breed ; 



Nor usher beings into life so new 

Without provision — 'twere a cruel deed ! 
Ah, such improvidence men often rue ! 
'Tis a sad, wicked thing, — if Malthus telleth true 



But when the vernal equinox is passed, 
And the gay mulberry in gallant trim 

Hath robed himself in verdant vest at last 
(Tis well to wait until thou seest him 
With summer-garb of green on every limb), 

Then is thy time. Be cautious still, nor risk 
Thine enterprise while the moon is dim, 

But tarry till she hangeth out her disk, 

with full light, then breed thy spin- 
ners brisk. 



Methinks that here some gentle maiden begs 

To know how best this genial deed is done : — 
Some on a napkin strew the little eggs, 

And simply hatch their silkworms in the 

sun ; 
But there's a better plan to fix upon. 
Wrapt in a muslin kerchief, pure and warm, 

Lay them within thy bosom safe ;' nor shun 
Nature's kind office till the tiny swarm 
Begins to creep. Fear not ; they cannot do thee 
harm. 



Meantime a fitting residence prepare, 
Wherein thy pigmy artisans may dwell, 

And furnish forth their factory with care : 
Of seasoned timber build the spinner's celL 
And be it lit and ventilated well ; 

And range them upon insulated shelves, 
Rising above each other parallel : 

There let them crawl — there let the little elve» 
On carpeting of leaf gayly disport themselves. 



And be their house impervious both to rain 
And to th' inclemency of sudden cold : 

See that no hungry sparrow entrance gain, 
To glut his maw and desolate the fold, 
Ranging among his victims uncontrolled. 

Nay, I have heard that once a wicked hen 
Obtained admittance by manoeuvre bold, 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



Slaughtering the insects in th&r little den ; 
If I had caught her there, — she had not come 
again. 

XIII. 

Stop up each crevice in the silkworm house, 
Each gaping orifice be snre to fill ; 

For oftentimes a sacrilegious mouse 
Will fatal iuroad make, intent on ill, 
And in cold blood the gentle spinners kill. 1 

Ah, cruel wretch ! whose idol is thy belly, 
The blood of innocence why dost thou spill ? 

Dost thou not know that silk is in that jelly ? 
Go forth, and seek elsewhere a dish of vermicelli. 



When thy young caterpillars 'gin to creep, 
Spread them with care upon the oaken 
planks ; 
And let them learn from infancy to keep 
Their proper station, and preserve their 

ranks — 
Not crawl at random, playing giddy pranks. 
Let them be taught their dignity, nor seek, 
Dressed in silk gown, to act like mounte- 
banks : 
Thus careful to eschew each vulgar freak, 
Sober they maun grow up, industrious and meek. 



Their minds kind Nature wisely pre-arranged, 

And of domestic habits made them fond ; 
Rarely they roam, or wish their dwelling 
changed, 
Or from their keeper's vigilance abscond : 
Pleased with their home, they travel not be- 
yond. 
Else, woe is me ! it were a bitter potion 

To hunt each truant and each vagabond : 
Haply of such attempts they have no notion, 
Jor on their heads is seen " the bump of loco- 
motion." 



The same kind Nature (who doth all things 
right) 
Their stomachs hath from infancy imbued 
Straight with a most tremendous appetite ; 
And till the leaf they love is o'er them 

strewed, 
Their little mouths wax clamorous for food. 



For their first banquetings this plan adopt — 

Cull the most tender leaves in all the wood, 
And let them, ere upon the worms they're 
dropped, 
Be minced for their young teeth, and diligently 
chopped. 



Passed the first week, an epoch will begin, 

A crisis which maun all thy care engage ; 
For then the little asp will cast his skin. 
Such change of raiment marks each separata 

stage 
Of childhood, youthhood, manhood, and 
old age : 
A gentle sleep gives token when he means 

To doff his coat for seemlier equipage ; 
Another and another supervenes, 
And then he is, I trow, no longer in his teens. 



Until that period, it importeth much, 

That no ungentle hand, with contact rude, 
Visit the shelves. Let the delightful touch 
Of Italy's fair daughters — fair and good! — 
Administer alone to that young brood. 
Mark how yon maiden's breast with pity 
yearns, 
Tending her charge with fond solicitude, — 
Hers be the blessing she so richly earns ! 
Soon may she see her own wee brood of bonny 
bairns ! 



Foliage, fresh gathered for immediate use, 

Be the green pasture of thy silken sheep, 
For when ferments the vegetable juice, 

They loathe the leaves, and from th' un. 

tasted heap 
With disappointment languishingly creep. 
Hie to the forest, evening, noon, ar^l morn ; 

Of brimming baskets quick succession keep 
Let the green grove for them be freely shorn, 
And smiling Plenty void her well-replenished 
horn. 



Pleasant the murmurs of their mouths to 
hear, 
While as they ply the plentiful repast, 

The dainty leaves demolished, disappear 
One after one. A fresh supply is cast — 
That, like the former, vanisheth as fast. 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



But, cautious of repletion (well yclept 

The fatal fount of sickness), cease at last ; 
Fling no more food, their fodder intercept, 
ADd be it laid aside, and for their supper kept. 



To gaze upon the dew-drop's glittering gem, 
T' inhale the moisture of the morning air, 

Is pleasantness to us; — 'tis death to them. 
Shepherd, of dank humidity beware, 
Moisture maun vitiate the freshest fare ;' 

Cull not the leaves at the first hour of prime, 
While yet the sun his arrows through the 
air 

Shoots horizontal. Tarry till he climb 
Half his meridian height: then is thy harvest- 



There be two sisters of the mulberry race,' 

One of complexion dark and olive hue; — 
Of taller figure and of fairer face, 

The other wins and captivates the view; 

And to maturity grows quicker too. 
Oft characters with color correspond ; 

Nathless the silkworm neither will eschew, 
He is of both immoderately fond — 
Still he doth dearly love the gently blooming 
blonde. 

xxm. 
With milder juice and more nutritious milk 

She feedeth him, though delicate and pale ; 
Nurtured by her he spins a finer silk, 

And her young sucklings, vigorous and 

hale, 
Aye o'er her sister's progeny prevail. 
Her paler charms more appetite beget, 

On which the creepers greedily regale : 
She bears the bell in foreign lands; and yet 
Our brown Italian maids prefer the dark bru- 
nette.' 

xxiv. 
The dark brunette, more bountiful of leaves, 

With less refinement more profusion shows; 
But often such redundance deceives. 



1 Pabula semper 
8icoa legant, nullaque flnant asperglne sylvat. 
1 Eat bicolor morns, bombyx voscetnr utraque 
Nigra fllbeneve fast etc., etc. 
The worm will always prefer to nibble the white mulberry-tree, 
•ad will quit the black for it readily. 

* Qttamvla Ausonlia laudetur nigra puellia. 



What though the ripened berry ruddier 

glows 
Upon these tufted branches than on those! 
Due is the preference to the paler plant : 

Then her to rear thy tender nurslings choose, 
Her to thy little orphans' wishes grant, 
Nor use the darker leaves unless the white be 
scant. 



Ovid has told a tender tale of Thisbe, 

Who found her lifeless lover lying pale 
Under a spreading mulberry. Let this be 
The merit and the moral of that tale. 
Sweet is thy song, in sooth, love's nightin- 
gale ! 
But hadst thou known that, nourished from 
that tree, 
Love's artisans would spin their tissue frail, 
Thou never wouldst of so much misery 
Have laid the scene beneath a spreading mu) 
berry. 

XXVI. 

Now should a failure of the mulberry crop 
Send famine to the threshold of thy door 

Do not despair : but, climbing to the top 
Of the tall elm, or kindred sycamore, 
Youug budding germs with searching ey« 
explore. 

Practise a pious fraud upon thy flock, 

With false supplies and counterfeited store : 

Thus for a while their little stomachs mock, 
Until thou canst provide of leaves a genuinestock. 

XXVII . 

But ne'er a simple village maiden ask 

To climb on trees,* — for her was never meant 

The rude exposure of such uncouth task ; 
Lest while she tries the perilous ascent, 
On pure and hospitable thoughts intent, 

A wicked faun, that lurks behind some bush. 
Peep out with upward eye — rude, insolent ! 

Oh, vile and desperate hardihood ! But, h ush J 
Nor let such matters move the bashful Muse to 
blush. 



* The good bishop's gallantry is herein displayed to fttfvt*. 

Nee rohora dnr* 
Ascendat permltte in sylvls innnba virgo; 
Aat operum patiens anus, et cui durior annis 
Sit cutis (Ingram facilis jactura aenectoBl), 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



231 



XXVIII. 

The maiden's ministry it is to keep 
Incessant vigil o'er the silkworm fold, 

Supply fresh fodder to the nibbling sheep, 
Cleanse and remove the remnants of the old, 
Guard against influence of damp or cold, 

And ever and anon collect them all 

In close divan : and ere their food is doled, 

Wash out with wine each stable and each stall, 
Lest foul disease the flock through feculence be- 
fall. 

XXIX. 

Changes will oft eome o'er their outward form, 
And each transition needs thy anxious cares : 
Four times they cast their skin. The spinner- 
worm 
Four soft successive suits of velvet wears; 
Nature each pliant envelope prepares. 
But how can they, in previous clothing pent, 
Get riddance of that shaggy robe of theirs ? 
They keep a three-days' fast. When by that 
Lent 
Grown lean, they doff with ease their old accou- 
trement. 



Nor are the last important days at hand — 

The liquid gold within its living mine 
Brightens. Nor nourishment they now de- 
mand, 
Nor care for life ; impatient to resign 
The wealth with which diaphanous they 
shine ! 
Eager they look around — imploring look, 

For branch or bush, their tissue to entwine; 
Some rudimental threads they seek to hook, 
And dearly love to find some hospitable nook. 



Anticipate their wishes, gentle maid I 

Hie to their help ; the fleeting moment catch. 
Quick be the shelves with wicker-work o'er- 
laid: 
Let osier, broom, and furze, their workshop 

thatch, 

With fond solicitude and blithe dispatch. 

So may they quickly, mid the thicket dense, 

Find out a spot their purposes to match ; 

So may they soon their industry commence, 

And of the round cocoon plan the circumference. 



Their hour is come. See how the yellow flood 
Swells in yon creeping cylinder ! how teems 

Exuberant the tide of amber blood ! 

How the recondite gold transparent gleams, 
And how pellucid the bright fluid seems ! 

Proud of such pregnancy, and duly skilled 
In Dsedalean craft, each insect deems 

The glorious purposes of life fulfilled, 
If into shining silk his substance be distilled ! 



Say, hast thou ever marked the clustering grape 
Swollen to maturity with ripe prodiice, 

When the imprisoned pulp pants to escape, 
And longs to joy " emancipated" juice 
In the full freedom of the bowl profuse ? 

So doth the silk that swells their skinny coat 
Loathe its confinement, panting to get loose : 

Such longing for relief their looks denote — 
Soon in their web they'll find a " bane and anti- 
dote." 

XXXIV: 

See! round and round, in many a mirthful 
maze, 
The wily workman weaves his golden gauze ; 
And while his throat the twisted thread pur- 
veys, 
New lines with labyrinthine labor draws, 
Plying his pair of operative jaws. 
From morn to noon, from noon to silent eve, 

He toileth without interval or pause, ' 
His monumental trophy to achieve, 
And his sepulchral sheet of silk resplendent 



Approach, and view thy artisans at work ; 

At thy wee spinners take a parting glance ; 
For soon each puny laborer will lurk 

Under his silken canopy's expanse — 

Tasteful alcove ! boudoir of elegance ! 
There will the weary worm in peace repose, 

And languid lethargy his limbs entrance ; 
There his career of usefulness will close ; 
Who would not live the life and die the death of 
those ! * 



1 Query, without paws t — P. Deoil. 

1 Mille legun t releguntqne vias, atquo orbibus orbM 
Agglomerant, donee coeco se carcere condant 
Bponto sol Tanta est edondt gloria flli 1 



232 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



XXXVI. 

Mostly they spin their solitary shroud 

Single, apart, like ancient anchoret ; 
Yet oft a loving pair will, 1 if allowed, 

In the same sepulchre of silk well met, 

Nestle like Romeo and Juliet. 
From such communing be they not debarred, 

Mindful of her who hallowed Paraclet; 

Even in r heir silken cenotaph 'twere hard 

To part a Hkloise from her loved Abelard. 

XXXVII. 

The task is done, the work is now complete; 

A stilly silence reigns throughout the room! 
Sleep on, blest beings ! be your slumbers sweet, 

And calmly rest within your golden tomb — 

Rest, till restored to renovated bloom. 
Bursting the trammels of that dark sojourn, 

Forth ye shall issue, and rejoiced, resume, 
A glorified appearance, and return 
To life a winged thing from monumental urn. 

XXXVIII. 

Fain would I pause, and of my tuneful text 
Reserve the remnant for a fitter time : 

Another song remains. The summit next 
Of double-peaked Parnassus when I climb, 
Grant me, ye gods ! the radiant wings of 
rhyme ! 

Thus may I bear me up th' adventurous road 
That winds aloft — an argument sublime! 

But of didactic poems 'tis the mode, 
No canto should conclude without an episode. 

xxxix. 

Venus it was who first invented silk — 
Linen had long, by Ceres patronized, 

Supplied Olympus : ladies of that ilk 

No better sort of clothing had devised — 
Linen alone their garde de robe comprised. 

Hence at her cambric loom the "suitors" found 
Penelope, whom hath immortalized 

The blind man eloquent: nor less renowned 
Were "Troy's proud dames," whose robes of lin- 
en "swept the ground." 



Thus the first female fashion was for flax ; 
A linen tunic was the garb that graced 



Exclusively the primitive "AlmackV 
Simplicity's costume I too soon effaced 
By vain inventions of more modern taste. 
Then was the reign of modesty and sense. 
Fair ones were not, I ween, more prudo and 
chaste, 
Girt in hoop-petticoats' circumference 
Or stays — Honi soi the rogue qui mal y pense. 



Wool, by Minerva manufactured, met 

With blithe encouragement and brisk de- 
mand; 
Her loom by constant buyers was beset, 
" Orders from foreign houses" kept her hand 
Busy supplying many a distant land. 
She was of woolleu stuffs the sole provider, 

Till some were introduced by contraband : 
A female called Arachne thus defied her, 
But soon gave up the trade, being turned into a 
spider. 



Thus a complete monopoly in wool, 
"Almost amounting to a prohibition," 

Enabled her to satisfy in full 

The darling object of her life's ambition, 
And gratify her spiteful disposition. 

Venus' she had determined should not be 
Suffered to purchase stuffs on no condition; 

While every naked Naiad nymph was free 
To buy her serge, moreen, and woollen drapperie. 



Albeit " when unadorned adorned the most," 

The goddess could not brook to be outwitted 
How could she bear her rival's bitter boast, 

If to this taunt she quietly submitted ! 

Olympus (robeless as she was) she quitted, 
Fully determined to bring back as fine a 

Dress as was ever woven, spun, or knitted ; 
Europe she searched, consulted the Czarina, 
And, taking good advice, crossed o'er "the wall" 
to China. 



Long before Europeans, the Chinese 

Possessed the compass, silkworms, and gun* 
powder, 

* Tantiim nu<la Venus moerebat munerla expera 
Egregtam ob formam textrici invisa Minerva. 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



And types, and tea, and other rarities. 


THE SHANDON BELLS.' 


China (with gifts since Nature hath en- 
dowed her) 


Sanbata jiaiiQo, 
J^uncra jplango, 


Is proud ; what land hath reason to be 


Solemnia clanao. 


prouder ? 


Inaorip. on an old BtU. 


Her let the dull " Barbarian Eye" respect, 


With deep affection 


And be her privileges all allowed her ; 


And recollection 


She is the widow (please to recollect) 


I often think of 


Of one the Deluge drowned, Primordial Intel- 


Those Shandon bells, 


lect! 


Whose sounds so wild would, 


xlv. 


In the days of childhood, 


The good inhabitants of Pekin, when 


Fling round my cradle 


They saw the dame in downright dishabille, 


Their magic spells. 


Were shocked. Such sight was far beyond 


On this I ponder 


the ken 


Where'er I wander, 


Of their Confucian notions. Full of zeal 


And thus grow fonder, 


To guard the morals of the commonweal, 
They straight deputed Sylk, a mandarin, 


Sweet Cork, of thee, 


With thy bells of Shandon, 


Humbly before the visitant to kneel 


That sound so grand on 


With downcast eye, and offer Beauty's queen 


The pleasant waters 


A rich resplendent robe of gorgeous bombazine. 


Of the river Lee. 




I've heard bells chiming 


xlvi. 


Full many a clime in, 


Venus received the vesture nothing loath, 


Tolling sublime in 


And much its gloss, its softness much ad- 


Cathedral shrine, 


mired, 


While at a glib rate 


And piaised that specimen of foreign growth, 


Brass tongues would vibrate— 


So splendid, and so cheaply too acquired ! 


But all tlieir music 


Quick in the robe her graceful limbs attired, 


Spoke naught like thine; 


She seeks a mirror — there delighted dallies ; 


For memory dwelling 


So rich a dress was all could be desired. 


On each proud swelling 


How she rejoiced to disappoint the malice 


Of the belfry knelling 


Of her unfeeling foe, the vile, vindictive Pallas !' 


Its bold notes free, 




Made the bells of Shandon 


XLVII. 


Sound far more grand on 


But while she praised the gift and thanked the 
giver 


The pleasant waters 
Of the river Lee. 


Of spinner-worms she sued for a supply. 


I've heard bells tolling 


Forthwith the good Chinese filled Cupid's 


Old "Adrian's Mole" in, 


quiver 


Their thunder rolling 


With the cocoons in which each worm doth 


From the Vatican, 


lie 


And cymbals gjorious 


Snug, until changed into a butterfly. 


Swinging uproarious 


The light cocoons wild Cupid showered o'er 


In the gorgeous turrets 


Greece, 


Of Notre Dame ; 


And o'er the isles, and over Italy, 


But thy sounds were sweeter 


Into .the lap of industry and peace; 


Than the dome of Peter 


And the glad nations hailed the long-sought 






•'Golden Fleece.'" 


> The spire of Shandon, built on the ruins of old Shandon Castla 


(for which see the plates in '• Pacata Hybernia"), is a prominent 
object, from whatever side the traveller approaches our beautiful 




1 Kettulit insignes tunicas, nihil indtga lan». 


city. In a vault at its foot sleep Borne generation" of the writer'! 


* Gratiair. opus Ausoniis duin volvunt fila puellis. 


kith and kin. 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 





Flings o'er the Tiber, 


He warmeth And the wood-block blaze 




Pealing solemnly ; — 


shins at a 


Fed his vacant gaze 




Oh ! the bells of Sliandon 


wooden fire 
Good b'ye U 


As we trod the maze 




Sound far more grand on 


him. 


Of the river down. 




The pleasant waters 




Soon we left behind 




Of the river Lee. 




On the frozen wind 
All farther mind 




There's a bell in Moscow, 




Of that vacant clown. 




While on tower and kiosk ol 








In Saint Sophia 
The Turkman gets, 


To Father 
meeteth a 

in n small 


But there came anon, 
As we journeyed on 




And loud in air 


Down the deep Garonne, 




Calls men to prayer 


bird. 


An acquaintancy, 




From the tapering summit 




Which we deemed, I count, 




Of tall minarets. 




Of more high amount, 




Such empty phantom 




For it oped the fount 




I freely giant them ; 




Of sweet sympathy. 




But there is an anthem 








More dear to me, — 


Wot ye 
fantbus alba 
trosa of that 


'Twas a stranger dressed 




'Tis the bells of Sbandon 


In a downy vest, 




That sound so graud on 


riner olde 


'Twas a wee Red-breast 




The pleasant waters 


Coleridge, 
but a poore 


(Not an "Albatross"), 




Of the river Lee. 




But a wanderer meek, 
Who fain would seek 
O'er the bosom bleak 






Of that flood t© cross. 


THE 


RED-BREAST OF AQUITANIA. 


Ye sparrow 


And we watched him oft 




A HUMBLE BALLAD. 


crossing ye 
river maketl 


As he soared aloft 


" Are not two sparrows sold for a farthing t yet not one of 
them shall fall to the ground without your Father."— St. Mat- 


hys half-waj 
bouse of the 
fire-ship. 


On his pinions soft, 
Poor wee weak thing, 


TUF.W, X. 29 






And we soon could mark 


"Gallos ab Aquitanis Garumna fluuien.— Juiir/s Ossab. 




That he sought our bark, 
As a resting ark 


"Sermons in stones, and good in every thing." — Siiaebspbabb. 
"Genius, left to shiver 






On the bank, 'tis said, 




For his weary wing. 




D*ed of that cold river." — Toil Moobb. 






River trip 


Oh, 'twas bitter cold 


Delusive 


But the bark, fire-fed, 


from Ton- 


As our steamboat rolled 


hope. Ye 
fire-ship 
runneth 10 
knots an 


On her pathway sped, 


Bordeaux. 


Down the pathway old 


And shot far ahead 


tir at -0. 
Snow 1 foo 


Of the deep Garonne, — 


hour: 'tis 
no go for ye 


Of the tiny bird, 


and a half 
deep. Use 


And the peasant lank, 


sparrow. 


And quicker in the van I 


of wooden 


While his sabot sank 




Her swift wheels ran, 


•hoes. 


In the snow-clad bank, 




As the quickening fan 




Saw it roll on, on. 




Of his winglets stirred. 


reGweon ^nd he hied him home 

farmer hieth 

to his cot- To his toit de chaume ; 


Ye byrde Is 
led a wilde 
goose chao* 


Vain, vain pursuit! 
Toil without fruit ! 


t»ge, and 
drinketb a 


And for those who roam 


sdown ye 


For his forked foot 


liffgonne. 


On the broad bleak flood 




Shall not anchor there, 




Cared he ? Not a thought ; 




Though the boat meanwhile 




For his beldame brought 




Down the stream beguile 




His wine-flask fraught 




For a bootless mile 




With the grape's red blood. 




The poor child of air ! 



I 



POEMS OF FRaNCIS MAHONY 



3ymptomes 
of fatigue. 
Tis melan- 


And 'twas plain at last 
He was flagging fast, 


Hys earlie 
flyght aero 
ye streams 


And I saw him soar 
From the morning shore, 


between M1 That his hour had past 




While his fresh wings bore 


2 stools. 


In that effort vain ; 




Him athwart the tide, 




Far from either bank. 




Soon with powers unspent 




Sans a saving plank, 




As he forward went, 




Slow, slow he sank, 




His wings he had bent 




Nor uprose again. 




On the sought-for side 


Hart of t* 

bird*. 


And the cheerless wave 
Just one ripple gave 


a newe ob- But while thus he flew, 

lectcalleth » 

his eye from Lo ! a vision new 




As it oped him a grave 


ye main* 

chaunce. 


Caught his wayward view 




In its bosom cold, 




With a semblance fair, 




And he sank alone, 




And that new-found wooer 




"With a feeble moan, 




Could, alas ! allure 




In that deep Garonne, 




From his pathway sure 




And then all was told. 




The bright child of air. 


T* old man 


But our pilot gray 
Wiped a tear away — 
In the broad Biscaye 
He had lost his boy ! 






M ye helrr. 
weepetb lor 

In ye bay ol 
BlMayv. 


Instability 
of purpose a 
fotall evyll 
In lyfe. 


For he turned aside, 
And adown the tide 
For a brief hour plied 




That sight brought back 




His yet unspent force. 




On its furrowed track 




And to gain that goal 




The remembered wreck 




Gave the powers of soul 




Of long-perished joy 




Which, unwasted, whole, 
Had achieved his course. 


Condole- 
nce of ye 
ladyea; eke 


And the tear half hid 






In soft Beauty's lid 


This Is ye 
morall of 


A bright Spirit, young, 


cFinkinterii 
Ugire. 


Stole forth unbid 


Father 


Unwept, unsung, 


For that red-breast bird ; — 


hnmble 


Sank thus among 




And the feeling crept, — 


ballade. 


The drifts of the stream; 




For a Warrior wept ; 




Not a record left, — 




And the silence kept 




Of renown bereft, 




Found no fitting word. 




By thy cruel theft, 

DELUSIVE DREAM ! 


Olde Father 
Proutte 


But / mused alone, 






sadly mo- 


For I thought of one 







.nentye 


Whom I well had known 






birde. 


In my earlier days, 


L'ENVOT TO W. H. AINSWOKTH, ESQ. 




Of a gentle mind, 


WHTLOMB, AUTHOR OP THE ADHIBABLE "OMOHTOK," 8r/SMO,0»W 


) 


Of a soul refined, 




OHBOKIOLEB OP "JACK 8HBPPAED," 




Of deserts designed 


which he 


Thus sadly I thought 




For the Palm of Praiso. 


wrotte by 
waxlight In 


As that bird unsought 






TJ^J* The remembrance brought 


Ye gtreav* 
ofLyfe. A 


And well would it seem 


at Bordeaux 
6 Jan., 1841. 


Of thy bright day ; 


of fayre pro- 


That o'er Life's dark stream, 




And I penned full soon 


UiM. 


Easy task for him 




This Dirge, while the moon 




In his flight of Fame, 




On the broad Garonne 




Was the Skyward Path 




Shed a wintry ray. 




O'er the billow's wrath, 








That for Genius hath 
Ever been the same. 











POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



THE LEGEND OF ARETHUSA. 
To the Right Honorable Arethusa M — r G — n. 

A shepherdess of Arcadie, 

In ilie days hight olden, 
Fed her white flock close to the sea ; 

'Twas the age called golden. 

That age of gold ! yet naught availed 

To save from rudeness, 
To keep unsullied — unassailed 

Such gentle goodness. 

The calm composure of a life 

Till then uncheckered, 
What rude attempt befell ? 'tis rife 

In Ovid's record. 

Poor shrinking maid — despairing, left 

Without reliance ; 
Of brother's, father's aid bereft, 

She called on Dian's. 

" Queen of the spotless ! quick, decree 

The boon I ask you 1 
To die — ere I dishonored be 1 

Speed to my rescue." 

Sudden beneath her footsteps oped 

The daisied meadow ; 
The passionate arms that wildly groped, 

Grasped but a shadow. 

Forth from the soil where sank absorbed 

That crystal virgin, 
Gushed a bright brook — pure, undisturbed — 

With pebbly margin. 

And onward to the sea-shore sped, 

Its course fulfilling ; 
Till the ^Egean's briny bed 

Took the bright rill in. 

When lo ! was wrought for aye a theme 

Of special wonder ; 
Fresh and untainted ran that stream 

The salt seas under. 

Proof against every wave's attempt 

To interfuse it ; 
From briny mixture still exempt, 

It flowed pellucid. 



And thus it kept for many a mile 

Its pathway single ; 
Current, in which nor gall nor guile 

Could ever mingle. 

And all day long with onward march 

The streamlet glided ; 
And when night came, Diana's torch 

The wanderer guided ; 

Till unto thee, sweet Sicily, 

From doubt and danger, 
From land and ocean's terrors free, 

She led the stranger ; 

And there gushed forth, the pride and vaunt 

Of Syracusa, 
The bright, time-honored, glorious fount 

Of Arethusa. 

ladye, such be thy career, 

Such be thy guidance ; 
From every earthly foe and fear 

Such be thy riddance! 

Safe from the tainted evil tongue 

Of foes insidious ; 
Brineless the bitter waves among 

Of "friends" perfidious. 

Such be thy life — live on, live on ! 

Nor couldst thou choose a 
Name more appropriate than thine own, 

Fair Arethusa ! 



THE LADYE OF LEE. 

There's a being bright, whose beams 
Light my days and gild my dreams, 
Till my life all sunshine seems — 'tis the ladye 
of Lee. 

Oh ! the joy that Beauty brings, 
While her merry laughter rings, 
And her voice of silver sings — how she loves but 



There's a grace in every limb, 
There's a charm in every whim, 
And the diamond cannot dim — the dazzling of 
her e'e. 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



237 



Uut there's a light amid 
Ail the lustre of her lid, 
That from the crowd is hid — and only I can see. 

Tis the glance by which is shown 

That she loves but me alone ; 

That she is all mine own — this ladye of Lee. 

Then say, can it be wrong, 

[f the burden of my song 

Be, how fondly I'll belong to this ladye of Lee f 



LIFE, A BUBBLE. 

a bird's-ste view thereof. 

Down comes rain drop, bubble follows ; 

On the house-top one by one 
Flock the synagogue of swallows, 

Met to vote that autumn's gone. 

There are hundreds of them sitting, 

Met to vote in unison ; 
They resolve on general flitting. 

" Fin for Athens off," says one. 

" Every year my place is filled in 
Plinth of pillared Parthenon, 

Where a ball has struck the building, 
Shot from Turk's besieging gun." 

"As for me, I've got my chamber 

O'er a Smyrna coffee-shop, 
Where his beadroll, made of amber, 

Hadji counts, and sips a drop." 

"I prefer Palmyra's scantlings, 
Architraves of lone Baalbec, 

Perched on which I feed my bantlings 
As they ope their bonnie beak." 

While the last, to tell her plan, says, 

" On the second cataract 
Fve a statue of old Ramses, 

And his neck is nicely cracked." 



With 



ISlartterj Songs. 

I. 
JACK BELLEW'S SONG 

Am — " Oh, weep for the hour /" 

Oh! the muse shed a tear 
When the cruel auctioneer, 
hammer in his hand, to sweet Blarney 



Lncly Jeffery's ghost 
Left the Stygian coast, 
And shrieked the live-long night for her grand- 
son's shame. 

The Vandal's hammer fell, 

And we know full well 
Who bought the castle furniture and fixtures, 01 

Aud took off in a cart 

(Twas enough to break one's heart!) 
All the statues made of lead, and the pictures, 
0! 

You're the man I mean, hight 
Sir Thomas Deane, knight, 

Whom the people have no reason to thank at all ; 
But for you those things so old 
Sure would never have been sold, 

Nor the fox be looking out from the banquet-hall. 

Oh, ye pulled at such a rate 
At every wainscoting and grate, 

Determined the old house to sack and garble, 
0! 
That you didn't leave a splinter, 
To keep out the could winter, 

Except a limestone chimney-piece of marble, ! 

And there the place was left 

Where bold King Charles the Twelfth 

Hung, before his portrait went upon a journey, ! 
Och! the family's itch 
For going to law was sitch, 

That they bound him long before to an attorney, 
0! 

But still the magic stone 
(Blessings on it !) is not flown, 

To which a debt of gratitude Pat Lardner owes : 
Kiss that block, if you're a dunce, 
And you'll emulate at once 

The genius who to fame by dint of blarney rosa 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHON*. 



FRIAR O'MEARA'S SONG. 

CANTILENA OMKARICA. 

Why then, sure it was made by a learned owl, 

The " rule " by which I beg, 
Forbidding to eat of the tender fowl 
That haugs on yonder peg. 
But, rot it! no matter: 
For here on a platter 
Sweet Margaret brings 
A food fit for kings ; 
And a meat 
Clean and neat — 
That's an egg ! 

Sweet maid, 
She brings me an egg newly laid 1 
And to fast I need ne'er be afraid, 
For 'tis Peg 
That can find me an egg. 

Three different "ways there are of eating them ; 

First boiled, then fried with salt, — 
^ut there's a particular way of treating them, 
Where many a cook's at fault : 
For with parsley and flour 
'Tis in Margaret's power 
To make up a dish, 
Neither meat, fowl, nor fish ; 
But in Paris they call 't 
A neat 
Omelette. 
Sweet girl! 
Li truth, as in Latin, her name is a pearl, 

When she gets 
Me a platter of nice omelettes. 

Och ! 'tis all in my eye, and a joke, 
To call fasting a sorrowful yoke; 
Sure, of Dublin-bay herrings a keg, 

And an egg, 
Is enough for all sensible folk ! 
Success to the fragrant turf-smoke, 
That curls round the pan on the fire; 
While the sweet yellow yolk 
From the egg-sh-Jls is broke 
In that pan, 
Who can, 
If he have but the heart of a man, 
Not feel the soft flame of desire, 
When it burns to a clinker the heart of a friar ! 



in. 

TERRY CALLAGHAN'S SONG; 

BXDTS A flTIX AJTD TBUB ACOOUTtT OT TUB STORMTXO Or BLAB 
KIT OASTLB, BT TDK TOITED FOBOB8 OF 0EOMW11X, IBBCOa 
AST) BAIBTAX, DC 1628. 

Aib— " Tm akin to the CaUaqhant." 

Blarney Castle, my darlint 1 

Sure you're nothing at all but a stone 
Wrapped in ivy — a nest for all varmint, 

Since the ould Lord Clancarty is gone. 
Och I 'tis you that was once strong and aincieat, 

And ye kep all the Sassenachs down, 
While fighting them battles that aint yet 

Forgotten by martial renown. 

Blarney Castle, etc 

Bad luck to that robber, ould Crommill ! 

That plundered our beautiful fort ; 
We'll never forgive him, though some will- - 

Saxons ! such as George Knapp and his » jrt. 
But they tell us the day '11 come, when Dai leJ 

Will purge the whole country, and driv* 
All the Sassenachs into the channel, 

Nor leave a Cromwellian alive. 

Blarney Castle, etc. 

Curse the day clumsy Noll's ugly corpus, 

Clad in copper, was seen on our plain ; 
When he rowled over here like a porpoise 

In two or three hookers from Spain ! 
And bekase that he was a freemason 

He mounted a battering-ram, 
And into her mouth, full of treason, 

Twenty pound of gunpowder he'd cram. 
Blarney Castle, etc 

So when the brave boys of Clancarty 

Looked over their battlement-wall, 
They saw wicked Oliver's party 

All a feeding on powder and ball ; 
And that giniral that married his daugbtei 

Wid a heap of grape-shot in his jaw — 
That's bould Ireton, so famous for slaughter - 

And he was his brother-in-law. 

O Blarney Castle, etc. 

They fired off their bullets like thunder, 
That whizzed through the air like a snake; 

And they made the ould castle (no wonder I) 
With all its foundations to shake. 

While the Irish had nothing to shoot off 
But their bows and their arras, the sowli I 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



Waypons fit for the wars of old Plutarch, 
And perhaps mighty good for wild fowls. 
Blarney Castle, etc. 

Och ! 'twas Crommill then gave the dark toket- 

Foi in the black art he was deep ; 
And though the eyes of the Irish stood open, 

They found themselves all fast asleep ! 
With his jack-boots he stepped on the water, 

And he walked clane right over the lake ; 
While his sodgers they all followed after, 

As dry as a duck or a drake. 

Blarney Castle, etc. 

Then the gates he burnt down to a cinder, 

And the roof he demolished likewise ; 
Oh! the rafters they flamed out like tinder, 

And the buildin'_/2ara? up to the skies. 
And he gave the estate to the Jeffers, 

With the dairy, the cows, and the hay ; 
And they lived there in clover like heifers, 

As their ancestors do to this day. 

O Blarney Castle, etc. 



THE LAMENT OF STELLA. 

A BURLESQUE ON THE LAMENT Otf DANAE, BY 
SIMONIDES. 

While round the churn, 'mid sleet and rain, 
It blew a perfect hurricane, 
Wrapped in slight garment to protect her, 
Methought I saw my mother's spectre, 
Who took her infant to her breast — 
Mt -he small tenant of that chest — 
While thus she lulled her babe : " How cruel 
i Have been the Fates to thee, my jewel ' 
But, caring naught for foe or scoffer, 
Thou sleepest in this milky coffer, 
Coopered with brass hoops weather-tight, 
Impervious to the dim moonlight. 
The shower cannot get in to soak 
Thy hair or little purple cloak ; 
Heedless of gloom, in dark sojourn. 
Thy face illuminates the churn! 
Small is thine ear, wee babe, for hearing, 
But grant my prayer, ye gods of Erin ! 
And may folks find that this young fellow 
Does credit to his mother Stella." 



EPITAPH ON FATHER PROUT. 

Swket upland ! where, like hermit old, in peace 
sojourned 

This priest devout ; 
Mark where beneath thy verdant sod lie deep 
inurned 

The bones of Prout ! 
Nor deck with monumental shrine or tapering 
column 

His place of rest, 
Whose soul, above earth's homage, meek yet 
solemn, 

Sits 'mid the blessed. 
Much was he prized, much loved ; his stern re- 
buke 

O'erawed sheep-stealers ; 
And rogues feared more the good man's single 
look 

Than forty Peelers. 
He's gone ; and discord soon I ween will visit 

The land with quarrels; 
And the foul demon vex with stills illicit 

The village morals. 
No fatal chance could happen more to cross 

The public wishes ; 
And all the neighborhood deplore his loss, 

Except the fishes; 
For he kept Lent most strict, and pickled herring 

Preferred to gammon. 
Grim Death has broke his angling-rod ; his her- 
ring 

Delights the salmon. 
No more can he hook up carp, eel, or trout, 

For fasting pittance, — 
Arts which Saint Peter loved, whose gate to 
Prout 

Gave prompt admittance. 
Mourn not, but verdantly let shamrocks keep 

His sainted dust ; 
The bad man's death it well becomes tc weep, — 

Not so the just. 



ATTRACTIONS OF A FASHIONABLE 
IRISH WATERING-PLACE. 

The town of Passage 
Is both large and spacious, 
And situated 
Upon the say. 



240 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



Tis nate and dacent, 
And quite adjacent 
To come from Cork 

On a summer's day ; 
There you may slip in 
To take a dipping, 
Foment the shipping 

That at anchor ride; 
Or in a wherry 
Cross o'er the ferry 
To Carrigaloe, 

On the other side. 

Mud cabins swarm in 
This place so charming, 
With sailor garments 

Hung out to dry ; 
And each abode is 
Snug and commodious, 
With pigs melodious 

In their straw-built sty. 
'Tis there the turf is, 
And lots of murphies, 
Dead sprats and herrings, 

And oyster shells ; 
Nor any lack, O ! 
Of good tobacco — 
Though what is smuggled 

By far excels. 

There are ships from Cadiz, 
And from Barbadoes, 
But the leading trade is 

In whisky-punch ; 
And you may go in 
Where one Molly Bowen 
Keeps a nate hotel 

For a quiet lunch. 
But land or deck on, 
You may safely reckon, 
Whatsoever country 

You come hither from, 
On an invitation 
To a jollification, 
With a parish priest 

That's called " Father Tom.' 

Of ships there's one fixt 
For lodging convicts, 



A floating "stone Jug" 

Of amazing bulk ; 
The hake and salmon, 
Playing at backgammon, 
Swim for divarsion 

All round this "hulk;" 
There " Saxon" jailers 
Keep brave repailers, 
Who soon with sailors 

Must anchor weigh 
From th' em'rald island, 
Ne'er to see dry land, 
Until they spy land 

In sweet Bot'ny Bay. 



FROM GRESSET'S FAREWELL TO THE 
JESUITS. 

To the sages I leave here's a heartfelt farewell ! 
'Twas a blessing within their loved cloisters to 

dwell, 
And my Nearest affections shall iling rounfj 

them still : 
Full gladly I mixed their blessed circles among. 
And oh ! heed not the whisper of Envy's foul 

tongue ; 
If you list but to her, you must know them 

but ill. 



1 The Kev. Thomas England. P. P., known to the literary world 
ty "a life " of the celebrated friar, Arthur O'Leary. ohaplain to a 
elub which Cnrran, Yelvertoo, Earls Moire, Charlemont, etc., eta, 
established in 17>0. under the designation of " the Monks of th* 
ieiew.-O. T. 



DON IGNACIO LOYOLA'S VIGIL 

IN THE CHAFEI. OF OUR LADY OF MONTSERRA* 

When at thy shrine, most holy maid ! 
The Spaniard hung his votive blade, 
And bared bis helmed brow — 
Not that he feared war's visage grim, 
Or that the battle-field for him 
Had aught to daunt, I trow ; 

" Glory !" he cried, " with thee I've done I 

Fame ! thy bright theatres I shun, 

To tread fresh pathways now : 

To track thy footsteps, Saviour God 1 

With- throbbing heart, with feet unshod: 

Hear and record my vow. 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



Yes, Thou shalt reign ! Chained to thy throne, 
The mind of man thy sway shall own, 

And to its conqueror bow. 
Genius his lyre to Thee shall lift, 
And intellect its choicest gift 

•Proudly on Thee bestow." 

Straight on the marble floor he knelt, 
And in his breast exulting felt 

A vivid furnace glow; 
Forth to his task the giant sped, 
Earth shook abroad beneath his tread, 

And idols were laid low. 

India repaired half Europe's loss; 
O'er a new hemisphere the Cross 

Shone in the azure sky ; 
And, from the isles of far Japan 
To the broad Andes, won o'er man 

A bloodless victory ! 



THE SONG OF THE COSSACK. 

Come, arouse thee up, my gallant horse, and 

bear thy rider on ! 
The comrade thou, and the friend, I trow, of 

the dweller on the Don. 
Pillage and Death have spread their wings! 

'tis the hour to hie thee forth, 
And with thy hoofs an echo wake to the 

trumpets of the North ! 
Nor gems nor gold do men behold upon thy 

saddle-tree ; 
But earth affords the wealth of lords for thy 

master and for thee. 
Then fiercely neigh, my charger gray ! — thy 

chest is proud and ample; 
Thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, 

and the pride of her heroes trample I 

Europe is weak — she hath grown old — her 

bulwarks are laid low ; 
She is loath to hear the blast of war — she 

shrinketh from a foe ! 
Come, in our turn, let us sojourn in her goodly 

haunts of joy — 
In the pillared porch to wave the torch, and 

her palaces destroy! 
Proud as when first tliou slakedst thy thirst in 

the flow of conquered Seine 



, Aye shalt thou lave, within that wave, thy 
blood red flanks again. 
Then fiercely neigh, my gallant gray ! — thy 
chest is strong and ample ! 
Thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France, 
and the pride of her heroes trample! 

Kings are beleaguered on their thrones by 

their own vassal crew ; 
And in their den quake noblemen, and priests 

are bearded too ; 
And loud they yelp for the Cossacks' help to 

keep their bondsmen down. 
And they think it meet, while they kiss our 

feet, to wear a tyrant's crown ! 
The sceptre now to my lance shall bow, and 

the crosier and the cross 
Shall bend alike, when I lift my pike, and 

aloft THAT SCEPTRE tOSS ! 

Then proudly neigh, my gallant gray ! — thj 
chest is broad and ample ; 
Thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of France,, 
and the pride of her heroes trample ! 

In a night of storm I have seen a form ! — and 

the figure was a giant, 
And his eye was bent on the Cossack's tent, 

and his look was all defiant ; 
Kingly his crest — and towards the West with 

his battle-axe he pointed ; 
And the " form " I saw was Attila ! of this 

earth the scourge anointed. 
From the Cossack's camp let the horseman's 

tramp the coming crash announce; 
Let the vulture whet his beak sharp set, on 

the carrion field to pounce ; 
And proudly neigh, my charger gray ! — Oh ! 

tby chest is broad and ample ; 
Thy hoofs shali prance o'er the fields of France, 

and the pride of her heroes trample! 

What boots old Europe's boasted fame, o 

which she builds reliance, 
When the North shall launch its avalanche on 

her works of art and science ? 
Hath she not wept her cities swept by our 

hordes of trampling stallions ? 
And tower and arch crushed in the march of 

our barbarous battalions ? 
Can we not wield our fathers' shield f the same 

war-hatchet handle ? 
Do our blades want length, or the reapers' 

strength, for the harvest of the Vandal f 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



Then proudly neigh, my gallant gray, for thy 
chest is strong and ample ; 
And thy hoofs shall prance o'er the fields of 
France, and the pride of her heroes tram- 
ple ! 



POPULAR RECOLLECTIONS OF BONA- 
PARTE. 

They'll talk of him for years to come, 

In cottage chronicle aud tale ; 
When for aught else renown is dumb, 

Mis legend shall prevail ! 
Then in the hamlet's honored chair 

Shall sit some aged dame, 
Teaching to lowly clown aud villager 

That narrative ot tame. 
Tis true, they'll say, his gorgeous throne 
France bled to raise ; 
But he was a\\ our own ! 
Motk«r ! say something in his praise — 

Oh, speak of him always! 

" I saw him pass : his was a host : 

Countless beyond your young imaginings — 
My children, he could boast 

A train of conquered kings! 
And when he came this road, 

'Twas on my bridal day. 
He were, for near to him I stood, 

Cocked hat and surcoat gray. 
I blushed ; he said, ' Be of good cheer! 
Courage, my dear !' 
That was his very word." — 
Mother ! Oh, then this really occurred, 

And you his voice could hear ! 

" A year rolled on, when next at Paris I, 
Lone woman that I am, 
Saw him pass by, 
Girt with his peers, to kneel at Notre Dame. 
I knew by merry chime and signal gun, 
God granted him a son, 
And oh ! I wept for joy ! 
For why not weep when warrior-men did, 
Who gazed upon tliat sight so splendid, 

And blessed t.h' imperial boy ? 
Never did noonday sun shine out so bright! 

Oh, what a sight !"— 
Mother ! for you that must have been 
A glorious scene ! 



" But when all Europe's gathered strength 
Burst o'er tlie French frontier at length, 

'Twill scarcely be believed 
What wondeis, single-handed, he achieved. 

Such general ne'er lived ! 
One evening on my threshold stood 

A guest — 'twas he ! Of warriors few 

He had a toil-worn retinue. 
He flung himself into this chair of wood, 

Muttering, meantime, with fearful air, 

' Quelle guerre ! oh, quelle guerre/'" — 
Mother ! and did our emperor sit there, 
Upon that very chair ? 

" He said, ' Give me some food.' — 
Brown loaf I gave, and homely wine, 
And made the kindling fiieblocks shine, 
To dry his cloak with wet bedewed. 
Soon by the bonny blaze he slept, 
Then waking chid me (for I wept) ; 
'Courage!' he cried, 'I'll strike for all 
Under the sacred wall 
Of France's noble capital !' 
Those were his words : I've reasured up 
With pride that same wine-cup ; 
And for its weight in gold 
It never shall be sold !" — 
Mother! on that proud relic let us gaze. 
Oh, keep that cup always! 

"But, through some fatal witchery, 

He, whom a Pope had crowned and blessed, 
Perished, my sons ! by foulest treachery : 

Cast on an isle far in the lonely West. 
Long time sad rumors were afloat — 

The fatal tidings we would spurn, 
Still hoping from that isle remote 

Once more our hero would return. 
But when the dark announcement drew 

Tears from the virtuous and the brave — 
When the sad whisper proved too true, 

A flood of grief I to his memory gave. 
Peace to the glorious dead !" 
Mother ! may God his fullest blessing shed 
Upon your aged head ! 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



ADDRESS TO THE VANGUARD OF THE 
FRENCH 



Ukder the Duke d'Alencon, 1521. 



Soldier! at length their gathered strength our 

might is doomed to feel — 
Spain and Brabant coniilitant — Bavaria and Cas- 
tile. 
Idiots, they think that France will shrink from a 

foe that rushes on, 
And terror damp the gallant camp of the bold 

Duke d'Alenjon ! 
But wail and woe betide the foe that waits for 

our assault! 
Back to his lair our pikes shall scare the wild 

boar of Hainault. 
"La Meuse shall flood her banks with blood, ere 

the sons of France resign 
Their glorious fields — the land that yields the 

olive and the vine ! • 

Then draw the blade ! be our ranks arrayed to 

the sound of the martial fife ; 
Inthefoeman'searletthe trumpeter blow a blast 

of deadly strife ; 
And let each knight collect his might, as if 

thare hung this day 
The fate of France on his single lance in the hour 

of the coming fray: 
As melts the snow in summer's glow, so may our 

helmets' glare ' • 

Consume their host; so folly's boast vanish in 

empty air. 
Fools ! to believe the sword could give to the chil- 
dren of the Rhine 
Our Gallic fields — the land that yields the olive 

and the vine ! 

< ■an Germans face our Norman race in the con- 
flict's awful shock — 

Brave the war-cry of " Britanny !" the shout of 
" Langueboc !" 

Dare they confront the battle's brunt — the fell 
encounter try 

When dread Bayard leads on his guard of stout 
gendarmerie f 

Strength be the test — then breast to breast, ay, 
grapple man with man ; 

Strength in the ranks, strength on both flanks, 
and valor in the van 



Let war efface each softer grace ; on stern Bel- 

lona's shrine 
We vow to shield the plains that yield the olive 

and the vine ! 

Methinks I see bright Victory, in robe of glory 



Joyful appear on the French frontier to the chief- 
tain she loves best ; 

While grim Defeat, in contrast meet, scowls o'er 
the Iceman's tent, 

She on our duke smiles down with look of bly the 



E'en now, I ween, our foes have seen their hopes 
of conquest fail ; 

Glad to regain their homes again, and quaff their 
Saxon ale. 

So may it be while chivalry and loyal hearts com- 
bine 

To lift a brand for the bonny land of the olive 
and the vine ! 



ODE ON THE SIGNAL DEFEAT OF THE 
SULTAN OSMAN, BY THE ARMY OF 
POLAND AND HER ALLIES, SEPTEM- 
BER, 1621. 

FROM THE LATIN OF CASIMIR 8AKBIEW8KI. 

As slow the plough the oxen plied, 
Close by the Danube's rolling tide, 
With old Galeski for their guide — 

The Dacian farmer — 
His eye amid the furrows spied 

Men's bones and armor. , 

The air was calm, the sun was low, 
Calm was the mighty river's flow, 
And silently, with footsteps slow, 

' Labored the yoke ; 
When fervently, with patriot glow, v 

The veteran spoke : 

" Halt ye, my oxen ! Pause we her* 
Where valor's vestiges appear, 
And Islam's relics far and near 

Lurk in the soil ; 
While Poland on victorious spear 

Rests from her toil. 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MA1IONY. 



Ay ? well she may triumphant rest, 
Adorn with glory's plume her crest, 
And wear of victory the vest, 

Elate and flushed : 
Oft was the Paynim's pride repressed — 

Here it was crushed ! 

Here the tremendous deed was done, 
Here the transceudant trophy won, 
Where fragments lie of sword and gun, 

And lance and shield, 
And Turkey's giant skeleton 

Cumbers the field ! 

Heavens ! I remember well that day, 
Of warrior men the proud display, 
Of brass and steel the dread array — 

Van, flank, and rear ; 
How my young heart the charger's neigh 

Throbbed high to hear ! 

How gallantly our lancers stood, 
Of bristling spears an iron wood , 
Fraught with a desperate hardihood 

That naught could daunt, 
And burning for the bloody feud, 

Fierce, grim, and gaunt! 



Then rose the deadly din of fight 
Then shouting charged, with all '. 
Of Wilna each Teutonic knight, 

And of St. John's, 
While flashing out from yonder height 

Thundered the bronze. 

Dire was the struggle in the van, 
Fiercely we grappled man with man, 
Till soon the Paynim chiels began 

For breath to gasp ; 
When Warsaw folded Ispahan 

In deadly grasp. 

So might a tempest grasp a pine, 

Tall giant of the Apennine, 

Whose rankling roots deep undermine 

The mountain'3 base : 
Fitting antagonists to twine 

In stern embrace. 

Loud rung on helm, and coat of mail, 
Of musketry the rattling hai 1 .; 
Of wounded men loud rose the wail 
In dismal rout : 



git, 



And now alternate would prevail 
The victor's shout. 

Long time amid the vapors dense 
The fire of battle raged intense, 
While Victory heid in suspense 

The scales on high : 
But Poland in her faith's defence 

Maun do or die ! 

Rash was the hope, and poor the chance, 
Of blunting that victorious lance ; 
Though Turkey from her broad expanse 

Brought all her sous, 
Swelling with tenfold arrogance, 

Hell's myrmidons! 

Stout was each Cossack heart and hand, 
Brave was our Lithuanian band, 
But Gallantry's own native land 

Sent forth the Poles ; 
And Valor's flame shone nobly fanned 

In patriot souls. 

Large be our allies' meed of fame ! 

Rude Russia to the rescue came, 

From land of frost, with brand of flame— 

A glorious horde : 
Huge havoc here these bones proclaim, 

Done by her sword. 

Pale and aghast the crescent fled, 
Joyful we clove each turbaned head, 
Heaping with holocausts of dead 

The foeman's camp : 
Loud echoed o'er their gory bed 

Our horsemen's tramp. 

A hundred trees one hatchet hews; 
A hundred doves one hawk pursues; 
One Polish gauntlet so can bruise 

Their miscreant clay : 
As well the caliph kens who rues 

That fatal day. 

What though, to meet the tug of war, 
Osman had gathered from afar 
Arab, and Sheik, and Hospodar, 

And Copt, and Guebre, 
Quick yielded Pagan scimitar 

To Christian salre. 

Here could the Turkman turn and trace 
The slaughter-tracks, here slowly pace 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



The field of downfall and disgrace, 


Prompt to assume the right's defence 


Where men and horse, 


Mercy unto the meek dispense, 


Thick strewn, encumbered all the place 


Curb the rude jaws of insolence 


With frequent corse. 


With bit and bridle, 




And scourge the chiel whose frankincense 


Well might his haughty soul repent 


Burns for an idol. 


That rash and guilty armament; 




Weep for the blood of nations spent, 


Who, his triumphant course amid, 


His ruined host; 


Who smote the monarch of Madrid, 


His empty arrogance lament, 


And bade Pavia's victor bid 


And bitter boast. 


To power farewell ? 




Once Europe's arbiter, now hid 


Sorrow, derision, scorn, and hate, 


In hermit's cell. 


Upon the proud one's footsteps wait; 




Both in the field and in the gate 


Thou, too, hast known misfortune's blast ; 


Accursed, abhorred ; 


Tempests have bent thy stately mast, 


And be his halls made desolate 


And nigh upon the breakers cast 


With fire and sword 1" 


Thy gallant ship : 


Such was the tale Galeski told, 


But now the hurricane is passed — 


Calm as the mighty Danube rolled; 


Hushed is the deep. 


And well I ween that farmer old, 


For Philip, lord of Aragon, 


Who held a plough, 

Had fought that day a warrior bold 

With helmed brow. 


Of haughty Charles the haughty son. 
The clouds still gather dark and dun, 
The sky still scowls; 


But now upon the glorious stream 


And round his gorgeous galleon 


The sun fluug out his parting beam, 


The tempest howls. 


The soldier-swain unyoked his team, 




Yet still he chanted 


Thou, when th' Almighty ruler dealt 


Tha live-long eve : — and glory's dream 


The blows thy kingdom lately felt, 


His pillow haunted. 


Thy brows unhelmed, unbound thy belt, 




Thy feet unshod, 




Humbly before the chastener knelt, 




And kissed the rod. 


ODE ON THE TAKING OF CALAIS, 


Pardon and peace thy penance bought; 




Joyful the seraph Mercy brought 


ADDRESSED TO HENRY II., KING OF FRANCE, BY 


The olive-bough, with blessing fraught 


GEORGE BUCHANAN. 


For thee and France ; — 




God for thy captive kingdom wrought 


Henry ! let none commend to thee 


Deliverance. 


Fate, Fortune, Doom, or Destiny, 




Or Star in heaven's high canopy, 


'Twas dark and drear ! 'twas win-ter's reign 1 


With magic glow 


Grim horror walked the lonesome plain ; 


Shining on man's nativity, 


The ice held bound with crystal chain 


For weal or woe. 


Lake, flood, and rill ; 




And dismal piped the hurricane 


Rather, king ! here recognize 


His music shrill. 


A Providence all just, all wise, 




Of every earthly enterprise 


But when the gallant Guise displayed 


The hidden mover ; 


The flag of France, and drew the blade, 


Aye casting calm complacent eyes 


Straight the obsequious season bade 


Down on thy Louvre 


Its rigor cease ; 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



And, lowly crouching, homage paid 


What citadel may Guise not scale, 


The Flkur de Lvs. 


Climb, storm, and seize ? 




What foe before thee may not quail, 


Winter his violence withheld, 


gallant Guise ! 


His progeny of tempests quelled, 




His canopy of clouds dispelled, 


Thee let the men of England dread, 


Unveiled the sun — 


Whom Edward erst victorious led, 


And blithesome days unparalleled 


Right joyful now that ocean's bed 


Began to run. 


Between them rolls 




And thee ! — that thy triumphant tread 


'Twas then beleaguered Calais found, 


Yon wave controls. 


With swamps and marshes fenced around, 




With counterscarp, and moat, and mound, 


Let ruthless Mary learn from hence 


Aud yawning trench, 


That Perfidy's a foul offence ; 


Vainly her hundred bulwarks frowned 


That falsehood hath its recompense ; 


To stay the French. 


That treaties broken, 




The anger of Omnipotence 


Guise ! child of glory and Lorraine, 


At length have woken. 


Ever thine house hath proved the bane 




Of France's foes ! aye from the chain 


May evil counsels prove the bane 


Of slavery kept her, 


And curse of her unhallowed reign; 


And in the teeth of haughty Spain 


Remorse, with its disastrous train, 


Upheld her sceptre. 


Infest her palace ; 




And may she of God's vengeance drain 


Scarce will a future age believe 


The brimming chalice! 


The deeds one year saw thee achieve 




Fame in her narrative should give 




Thee magic pinions 




To range, with free prerogative, 




All earth's dominions. 


MICHEL ANGELO'S FAREWELL TO 


What were the year's achievements? first, 


• SCULPTURE. 


Yon Alps their barrier saw thee burst, 


I feel that I am growing old — 


To bruise a reptile's head, who durst, 


My lamp of clay ! thy flame, behold ! 


With viper sting, 


'Gins to burn low : and I've unrolled 


Assail (ingratitude accursed !) 


My life's eventful volume! 


Rome's Pontiff-King. 






The sea has borne my fragile bark 


To rescue Rome, capture Plaisance, 


Close to the shore — now, rising dark, 


Make Naples yield the claims of France, 


O'er the subsiding wave I mark 


"While the mere shadow of thy lance 


This brief world's final column. 


O'erawed the Turk : — 




Such was, within the year's expanse, 


'Tis time, my soul, for pensive mood, 


Thy journey-work. 


For holy calm and solitude ; 




Then cease henceforward to delude 


But Calais yet remained unwon — 


Thyself with fleeting vanity. 


Calais, stronghold of Albion, 




Her zone begirt with blade and gun, 


The pride of art, the sculptured thought. 


In all the pomp 


Vain idols that my hand hath wrought-^ 


And pride of war ; fierce Amazon ! 


To place my trust in such were naught 


Queen of a swamp ! 


But sheer insanity. 


But even she hath proven frail, 


What can the pencil's power achieve ? 


Her walls and swamps of no avail ; 


What can the chisel's triumph give ! 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



247 



A name perhaps on earth may live, 
And travel to posterity. 

But can proud Rome's Pantheon tell, 

If tor the soul of Raffaelle 

His glorious obsequies could quell 

The Judgment-Seat's severity? 

Yet why should Christ's believer fear, 
While gazing on yon image dear ? — 
Image adored, maugre the sDeer 

Of miscreant blasphemer. 



Are not those arms for me < 
What mean those thorns upon thy head ?- 
And shall I, wreathed with laurels, tread 
Far from thy paths, Redeemer ? 



THE SONG OF BRENNUS, 

OR THE INTRODUCTION OF THE GRAPE INTO FRANCE. 
Tubs— "The Night before Larry.™ 

When Brennus came back here from Rome, 

These words he is said to have spoken : 
* We have conquered, my boys ! and brought 
home 
A sprig of the vine for a token ! 
Cheer, my hearties ! and welcome to Gaul 

This plant, which we won from the foeman ; 
"lis enough to repay us for all 

Our trouble in beating the Roman ; 

Bless the gods ! and bad luck to the 
geese ! 

Oh ! take care to treat well the fair guest, 

From the blasts of the north to protect her ; 
Of your hillocks, the sunniest and best 

Make them hers, for the sake of her nectar. 
She shall nurse your young Gauls with her juice ; 

Give life to ' the arts' in libations ; 
While your ships round the globe shall produce 

Her goblet of joy for all nations — 

E'en the foeman shall taste of our cup. 



' His body was laid out in state in the church of St Maria Eo- 
ton da (the Pantheon), whither all Rome flocked to honor the illus- 
trious dead. His last and most glorious work, " The Transfigura- 
tion, 1 ' was placed above his bier; while Leo's pontifical hand 
•tnwed flowers and burnt incense over the cold remains of depart- 
ed genius.— Life of Raffaette. 



The exile who flies to our hearth 

She shall soothe, all his sorrows redressing ; 
For the vine is the parent of mirth, 

And to sit in its shade is a blessing." 
So the soil Brennus dug with his lance, 

'Mid the crowd of Gaul's warriors and sages ; 
And our forefathers grim, of gay France 

Got a glimpse through the vista of ages — 

And it gladdened the hearts of the 
Gauls! 



WINE DEBTOR TO WATER. 

An— "Life let us cherish*' 1 

Rain best doth nourish 

Earth's pride, the budding vine ! 
Grapes best will flourish 

On which the dewdrops shine. 
Then why should water meet with scorn, 

Or why its claim to praise resign ? 
When from that bounteous source is born 

The vine! the vine ! the vine! 

Rain best disposes 

Earth for each blossom and each bud ; 
True, we are told by Moses, 

Once it brought on " a flood :" 
But while that flood did all immerse, 

All save old Noah's holy line, 
Pray read the chapter and the verse — 

The vine is there ! the vine ! 

Wine by water-carriage 

Round the globe is best conveyed ; 
Then why disparage 

A path for old Bacchus made? 
When in our docks the cargo lands 

Which foreign merchants here consign, 
The wine's red empire wide expands — 

The vine ! the vine ! the vine ! 

Rain makes the miller 

Work his glad wheel the livelong day * 
Rain brings the siller, 

And drives dull care away : 
For without rain he lacks the stream, 

And fain o'er watery cups must pine ; 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



But when it rains, he courts, I deem, 
Th<! vine ! the vine ! the vine ! ' 

Though all good judges 

Water's worth now understand, 
Mark yon chiel who drudges 

With buckets in each hand ; 
He toils with water through the town, 

Until he spies a certain "sign," 
Where entering, fill his labor done, 

He drains thy juice, vine ! 

But pure water singing 

Dries full soon the poet's tongue; 
So crown all by bringing 

A draught drawn from the bung 
Of yonder cask, that wine contains 

Of Loire's good vintage or the Rhine, 
Queen of whose teeming margin reigns 

The vine ! the vine ! the vine ! 



POPULAR BALLAD ON THE BATTLE 

OF LEPANTO. 

Let us sing how the boast of the Saracen host 

In the gulf of Lepanto was scattered, 
When each knight of St. John's from his cannon 
of bronze 
Witn grape-shot their argosies battered. 
Oh ! we taught the Turks then that of Europe 
the men 
Could defy every infidel menace — 
And that still o'er the main float the galleys of 
Spain, 
And the red-lion standard of Venice ! 

Quick we made the foe skulk, as we blazed at 

each hulk, 
I While they left us a splinter to fire at; 
And the rest of them fled o'er the waters, blood 
red 
With the gore of the Ottoman pirate ; 
And our navy gave chase to the infidel race, 
Nor allowed them a moment to rally ; 



1 This idea, containing an apparent paradox, has been frequent- 
ly worked up in the quaint writing of the middle ages. There Is 
an old Jesuits' riddle, which I learnt among other wipe saws at their 
colleges, from which it will appear that this Miller is a regular 
Joe. 

Q. "Suave bibo vinum quoties mihi suppetit unda; 
TJndaquo si desit, quid bibo?" 

R. -Tristis aqnam I" 



And we forced them at length to acknowledge 
our strength 
In the trench, in the field, in the galley! 

Then our men gave a shout, and the ocean 
throughout 

Heard of Christendom's triumph with rapture. 
Galeottes eighty-nine of the enemy's line 

To our swift-sailing ships fell a capture: 
And I firmly maintain that the uumber of slain 

To at least sixty thousand amounted ; 
To be sure 'twas sad work — if the life of a Turk 

For a moment were worth being counted. 

We may well feel elate ; though I'm sorry to 
state, 
That albeit by the myriad we've slain 'em, 
Still, the sons of the Cross have to weep for the 
loss 
Of six thousand who fell by the Paynim. 
Full atonement was due for each man that they 
slew, 
And a hecatomb paid for each hero : 
But could all that we'd kill give a son to Castile, 
Or to Malta a brave cavalhero ? 



St. Mark for the slain intercedes not in vain— 

There's a mass at each altar in Venice; 
And the saints we implore for the banner they 
bore 

Are Our Lady, St. George, and St. Denis. 
For the brave while we grieve, in our hearts 
they shall live, 

In our mouths shall their praise be incessant; 
And again and again we will boast of the men 

Who have humbled the pride of the Crescent. 



THE THREE-COLORED FLAU 

(a prosecuted song.) 

Comrades, around this humble board, 

Here's to our banner's by-gone splendor. 
There may be treason in that word — 
All Europe may the proof atford — 
All France be the offender; 
But drink the toast 
That gladdens most, 
Fires the young heart and cheers the old— 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



" May France once more 
Her tri-color 
Blessed with new life behold ! 

List to my secret. That old flag 

Under my bed of straw is hidden, 
Sacred to glory ! War-worn rag ! 
Thee no informer thence shall drag, 
Nor d;istard spy say 'tis forbidden. 
France, I can vouch, 
Will, from its couch, 
The dormant symbol yet unfold, 
And wave once more 
Her tri-color 
Through Europe, uncontrolled! 

For every drop of blood we spent, 

Did not that flag give value plenty! 
Were not our children as they went, 
Jocund, to join the warrior's tent, 
Soldiers at ten, heroes at twenty ? 
France ! who were then 
Your noblemen ? 
Not they of parchment-must and mould I 
But they who bore 
Your tri-color 
Through Europe, uncontrolled! 

Leipsic hath seen our eagle fall, 

Drunk with renown, worn out with glory ; 
But, with the emblem of old Gaul 
Orowning our standard, we'll recall 
The brightest days of Valmy's story I 
With terror pale 
Shall despots quail, 
When in their ear the tale is told, 
Of France once more 
Her tri-color 
Preparing to unfold ! 

Trust not the lawless ruffian chiel, 

Worse than the vilest monarch he! 
Down with the dungeon and Bastile' 
But let our country never kneel 
To that grim idol, Anarchy! 
Strength shall appear 
On our frontier — 
France shall be Liberty's stronghold! 
Then earth once more 
The tri-color 
With blessings shall behold! 

Omy old flag! that liest hid, 

There where my sword and musket lie — 



Banner, come forth ! for tears unbid 
Are filling fast a warrior's lid, 
Which thou alone canst dry. 
A soldier's grief 
Shall find relief, 
A veteran's heart shall be consoled- 
France shall once more 
Her tri-color 
Triumphantly unfold ! 



MALBKOUCK. 



Malbrouck the prince of commauders, 

Is gone to the war in Flanders; 

His fame is like Alexander's ; 

But when will he come home ? [ter. 

Perhaps at Trinity Feast, or 

Perhaps he may come at Easter. 

Egad! he had better make haste, or 

We fear he may never come. [ter. 

For " Trinity Feast" is over, 

And has brought no news from Dover ; 

And Easter is past, moreover ; 

And Malbrouck still delays. [ter 

Milady in her watch-tower 

Spends many a pensive hour, 

Not well knowing why or how her 

Dear lord from England stays. [ter. 



While sitting quite forlorn in 
That tower, she spies returning 
A page clad in deep mourning, 
With fainting steps and slow. 



[ter. 



" page, prithee, come faster ; 

What news do. you bring of your master ! 

I fear there is some disaster, 

Your looks are so full of woe." [teti 

"The news I briug, fair lady," 

With sorrowful accent said he, 

" Is one you are not ready 

So soon, alas ! to hear-, [ter. 

But since to speak I'm hurried," 
Added this page, quite flurried, 
" Malbrouck is dead and buried H — 
(And here he shed a tear.) [tet 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



" Ilf's dead ! he's dt»ad as a herring! 

For I beheld his • herring? 

Ami tour officers transferring 

His corpse away from the field. [ter. 

Oiih officer carried his sabre, 

And he carried it not without labor, 

Much envying his next neighbor, 

Who only bore a shield. [ter. 

The third was helmet-bearer — 

That helmet which on its wearer 

Filled all who saw with terror, 

And covered a hero's brains. [ter. 

Now, having got so far, I 

Find that (by the Lord Harry !) 

The fourth is left nothing to carry; 

So there the thing remains." [ter. 



TBE OBSEQUIES OF DAVE? THE 
PAINTER. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF BERANGER. 

The pass is barred ! " FaJ I back !" cries the guard ; 

" cross not the French frontier ! " 
As with solemn tread, of the exiled dead the 

funeral drew near. 
For the sentinelle hath noticed well what no 

plume, no pall can hide, 
That yon hearse contains the sad remains of a 

banished regicide ! 
"But pity take, for his glory's sake," said his 

children to the guard ; 
" Let his noble art plead on his part — let a grave 

be his reward ! 
Francs knew his name in her hour of fame, nor 

the aid of his pencil scorned ; 
Let his passport be the memory of the triumphs 

he adorned ! " 

" That corpse can't pass ! 'tis my duty, alas ! " 

said the frontier sentinelle. — 
" But pit-y take, for his country's sake, and his 

clay do not repel 
From its kindred earth, from the land of his 

birth ! " cried the mourners, in their turn. 
Oh ! give to France the inheritance of her 

painter's funeral urn : ■ 



His pencil traced, on the Alpine waste of the 

pathless Mont Bernard, 
Napoleon's course on the sm>*-whit« horse!— 

let a grave be his reward ! 
For he loved this land — ay, his dying hand to 

paint her fame he'd lend her : 
Let her passport be the memory of his native 

country's splendor ! " 

"Ye cannot pass," said the guard, "alas! (for 

tears bedimmed his eyes) 
Though France may count to pass that mount 

a glorious enterprise." — 
" Then pity take, for fair Freedom's sake," cried 

the mourners once again : 
"Her favorite was Leouklas, with his band of 

Spartan men ; 
Did not his art to them impart life's breath, 

that France might see 
What a patriot few in the gap could do at old 

Thermopylae ? 
Oft by that sight for the coming fight was the 

youthful bosom fired : 
Let his passport be the memory of the valor he 

inspired ! " 

" Ye cannot pass." — " Soldier, alas ! a dismal 

boon we crave — 
Say, is there not some lonely spot where his 

friends may dig a grave ? 
Oh! pity take, for that hero's sake whom he 

gloried to portray 
With crown and palm at Notre Dame on his 

coronation-day." 
Amid that band the withered hand of an aged 

pontiff rose, 
And blessing shed on the conqueror's head, for- 

giving his own woes : — 
He drew that scene — nor dreamt, I ween, that 

yet a little while, 
And the hero's doom would be a tomb far otf in 

a lonely isle ! 

"I am charged, alas ! not to let yon pass," said 

the sorrowing sentinelle ; 
"His destiny must also be a foreign grave ! " — 

"Tis well!— 
Hard is our fate to supplicate for his bones a 

place of rest, 
And to bear away his banished clay from the land 

that he loved best. 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



251 



But let us hence ! — Sad recompense for the lustre 
that he cast, 

Blending the rays of modern days with the glo- 
ries of the past ! 

Our sons will read with shame this deed (unless 
my mind doth err) 

And a future age make pilgrimage to the painter's 
sepulchre ! " 



TO PROSTRATE ITALY. 

FILICAIA. 

Hast thou not been the nations' queen, fair Italy ! 
though now 

Chance gives to them the diadem that once adorn- 
ed thy brow? 

Toe beautiful for tyrant's rule, too proud for 
handmaid's duty — 

Would thou hadst less of loveliness, or strength 
as well as beauty ! 

The fatal light of beauty bright with fell attrac- 
tion shone, 

Fatal to thee, for tyrants be the lovers thou hast 
won ! 

That forehead fair is doomed to wear its shame's 
degrading proof, 

And slavery's print in damning tint stamped by 
a despot's hoof! 

Were strength and power, maiden ! thy aower, 
soon should that robber-band, 

That prowls unbid thy vines amid, % scourged 
from off that land ; 

Nor wouldst thou fear yon foreigner, nor be con- 
demned to see 

Drink in the flow of classic Po barbarian cav- 
alry. 

Climate of art ! thy sons depart to gild a Van- 
dal's throne ; 

To battle led, their blood is shed in contests not 
their own ; — 

Mixed with yon horde, go draw thy sword, nor 
ask what cause 'tis for : 

Thy lot is cast — slave to the last! conquered or 
conqueror ! 



ODE TO THE STATUE OF MOSES 



JULIUS n. IS TH« 



MICHAEL ANQElA* 



Statue ! whose giant limbs 
Old Buonarotti plannetl, 
And Genius carved with meditative hand,— 
Thy dazzling radiance dims 
The best and brightest boasts of Sculpture's fa- 
vorite land. 

What dignity adorns 
That beard's prodigious sweep ! 
That forehead, awful with mysterious horns 
And cogitation deep, 
Of some uncommon mind the rapt beholder warns. 

In that proud semblance, well 
My soul can recognize 
The prophet fresh from converse with the 
skies; 
Nor is it hard to tell 
The liberator's name, — the Guide of Israel. 

Well might the deep respond 
Obedient to that voice, 
When on the Red Sea shore he waved his 
wand, 
And bade the tribes rejoice, 
Saved from the yawning gulf and the Egyptian's 
bond! 

Fools ! in the wilderness 
Ye raised a calf of gold ! 
Had ye then worshipped what I now behold, 
Your crime had been far less — 
For ye had bent the knee to one of godlike 
mould! 



LINES ADDRESSED TO THE TIBER. 

BT ALESSANDRO GUILDI. 

Tiber ! my early dream, 
My boyhood's vision of thy classic stream 
Had taught my mind to think 
That over sands of gold 
Thy limpid waters rolled, 
And ever-verdant laurels grew upon thy brink. 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAUONY. 



But far in other guise 


But still thy proudest boast, 


The rude reality hath met mine eyes. 


Tiber! and what brings honor to thee most, 


Here, seated on thy bank, 


Is, that thy waters roll 


All desolate and drear 


Fast by th' eternal home 


Thy margin doth appear, 


Of Glory's daughter, Rome ; 


With »reeping weeds, and shrubs, and vegetation 


And that thy billows bathe the sacred Capitol. 


rank 






Famed is thy stream for her, 


Fondly I fancied thine 


Clelia, thy current's virgin conqueror, 


The wave pellucid, and the Naiad's shrine, 


Ansl him who stemmed the march 


In crystal grot below ; 


Of Tuscany's proud host, 


But thy tempestuous course 


When, firm at honor's post, 


Runs turbulent and hoarse, 


He waved his blood-stained blade above the 


And, swelling with wild wrath, thy wintry waters 
flow. 


broken arch. 


Of Romulus the sons, 


Upon thy bosom dark 


To torrid Africans, to frozen Huns, 


Peril awaits the light confiding bark, 


Have taught thy name, flood 1 


In eddying vortex swamped ; 


And to that utmost verge 


Foul, treacherous, and deep, 


Where radiantly emerge 


Thy winding waters sweep, 


Apollo's car of flame and golden-footed stud. 


Enveloping their prey in dismal ruin prompt. 






For so much glory lent, 


Fast in thy bed is sunk 


Ever destructive of some monument, 


The mountain pine-tree's broken trunk, 


Thou makest foul return ; 


Aimed at the galley's keel ; 


Insulting with thy wave 


And well thy wave can waft 


Each Roman hero's grave,- 


Upon that broken shaft 


And Scipio's dust that fills yon consecrated urni 


The barge, whose sunken wreck thy bosom will 




conceal. 




The dog-star's sultry power, 




The summer heat, the noontide's fervid hour, 


THE ANGEL OF POETRY. 


That fires the mantling blood, 




Yon cautious swain can't urge 


TO L. E. L. 


To tempt thy dangerous surge, 




Or cool his limbs within thy dark insidious flood. 


Lady ! for thee a holier key shall harmonize the 

chord — 
In Heaven's defence Omnipotence drew an 


I've marked thee in thy pride, 


When struggle fierce thy disemboguing tide 


avenging sword ; 


With Ocean's monarch held ; 


But when the bolt had crushed revolt, one angel, 


But, quickly overcome 


fair though frail, 


By Neptune's masterdom, 


Retained his lute, fond attribute! to charm that 


Back thou hast fled as oft^ ingloriously repelled. 


gloomy vale. 




The lyre he kept his wild hand swept; the music 


Often, athwart the fields 


he'd awaken 


A giant's strength thy flood redundant wields, 


Would sweetly thriil from the lonely hill where 


Bursting above its brim — 


he sat apart forsaken : 


Strength that no dike can check : 


There he'd lament his bauishment, his thoughts 


Dire is the harvest-wreck ! 


to grief abandon, 


Buoyant, with lofty horns, th' affrighted bullock 


And weep Lis full. 'Twas pitiful to see him 


swims ! 


weep, fair Landon ! 



POKMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY 



Ho wept his fault ! Hell's gloomy vault grew 
vocal with his song ; 

But all throughout derision's shout burst from 
the guilty throng: 

God pitying viewed his fortitude in that unhal- 
lowed den ; 

Freed him from hell, but bade him dwell amid 
the sons of men. 

Lady ! for us, an exile thus, immortal Poesy 

Came upon earth, and lutes gave birth to sweet- 
est minstrelsy ; 

And poets wrought their spellwords, taught by 
that angelic mind, 

And music lent soft blandishment to fascinate 
mankind, 

Religion rose ! man sought repose in the shadow 

of her wings ; 
Music, for her walked harbinger, and Genius 

touched the strings : 
Tears from the tree of Araby cast on .her altar 

burned, 
But earth and wave most fragrance gave where 

Poetry sojourned. 
Vainly, with hate inveterate, hell labored in its 

rage, 
To persecute that angel's lute, and cross his pil- 
grimage ; 
Unmoved and calm, his songs poured balm' on 

sorrow all the while ; 
' Vice he unmasked, but virtue basked in the 

radiance of his smile. 

Oh, where, among the fair and young, or in what 

kingly court, 
In what gay path where pleasure hath her favor- 
ite resort, 
Where bust thou gone, angelic one? Back to 

thy native skies? 
Or dost thou dwell in cloistered cell, in pensive 

hermit's guise? 
Methinks I ken a denizen of this our island — 

nay. 
Leave me to guess, fair poetess ! queen of the 

matchless lay ! 
The thrilling line, lady ! is thine; the spirit pure 

and free; 
And England views that angel muse, Landon! 

revealed in thee 1 



"GOOD DRY LODGINGS." 

ACCORDING TO BEHANGEK, SONGSTER. 

My dwelling is ample, 

And I've set an example 
For all lovers of wine to follow ; 

If my home you should ask, 

I have drained out a cask, 
And I dwell in the fragrant hollow. 
A disciple am I of Diogenes — 
Oh ! his tub a most classical lodging is. 
'Tis a beautiful alcove for thinking; 
'Tis, besides, a cool grotto flor drinking: 
Moreover, the parish throughout 
You can readily roll it about. 
Oh ! the berth 

For a lover of mirth, 
To revel in jokes, and to lodge in ease, 
Is the classical tub of Diogenes ! 

In politics I'm no adept, 
And into my tub when I've crept, 
They may canvass in vain for my vote. 
For besides, after all the great cry and hubbub, 
Reform gave no " ten pound franchise " to my 
tub; 
So your "bill" I don't value a groat! 
And as for that idol of filth and vulgarity. 
Adorned now-a-days, and yclept Popularity, 
To my home 
Should it come, 
And my hogshead's blight aperture darken, 
Think not to such summons I'd hearken. 
No! I'd say to that ghoul grim and gaunt. 
Vile phantom, avauut! 
Get thee out of my sight ! 
For thy clumsy opacity shuts out the light 
Of the gay, glorious sun 
From my classical tun, 
Where a hater of cant and a lover of fun 
Fain would revel in mirth, and would lodge a 
ease — 
The classical tub of Diogenes 1 

In the park of St. Cloud there stare at you 
A pillar or statue 

Of my liege, the philosopher cynical : 

There he stands on a piunacle, 
And his lantern is placed on the ground, 

While, with both eyes fixed wholly on 

The favorite haunt of Napoleon, 



254 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



1 



"A man!" he exclaims, "by the powers, I have 

found !" 
But for me, when at eve I go sauntering 
Oji the boulevards of Athens, " Love " carries my 

ianiern; 
And, egad! though I walk most demurely, 
For a man I'm not looking full surely ; 
Nay, I'm sometimes brought drunk home, 
Like honest Jack Reeve, or li'ke honest Tom 
Duncombe. 
Oh ! the nest 
For a lover of jest 
To revel in fun, and to lodge in ease, 
Is the classical tub of Diogenes. 



THE CARRIER-DOVE OF ATHENS. 
A Dream, 1822. 

Helen sat by my side, and I held 

To her lip the gay cup in my bower, 
When a bird at our feet we beheld, 

As we talked of old Greece in that hour; 
And his wing bore a burden of love, 

To some fair oue the seeret soul telling — 
Oh, drink of my cup, carrier-dove ! 

And sleep on the bosom of Helen. 

Thou art tired — rest awhile, and anon 

Thou shalt soar, with new energy thrilling, 
To the land of that far-off fair one, 

If such be the task thou'rt fulfilling; 
But perhaps thou dost waft the last word 

Of despair, wrung from valor and duty — 
Then drink of my cup, carrier-bird ! 

And sleep on the bosom of Beauty. 

Ha ! these lines are from Greece ! Well I knew 

The loved idiom ! Be mine the perusal. 
Son of France, I'm a child of Greece too ; 

And a kinsman will brook no refusal. 
" Greece is free!'" all the gods have concurred 

To fill up our joy's brimming measure — 
Oh, driuk of my cup, carrier bird ! 

And sleep on the bosom of Pleasure. 

Greece is free! . Let us drink to that land, 
To our elders in fame! Did ye merit 

Thus to struggle alone, glorious band ! 

From whose sires we our freedom inherit ? 



The old glories, which kings would destroy, 
Greece regains, never, never to lose 'em ! 

Oh, drink of my cup, bird of joy ! 
And sleep on my Helen's soft bosom. 

Muse of Athens! thy lyre quick resume ! 

None thy anthem of freedom shall hinder : 
Give Anacreon joy in his tomb, 

And gladden the ashes of Pindar. 
Helen ! fold that bright bird to thy breast, 

Nor permit him henceforth to desert you— 
Oh, drink of my cup, winged guest ! 

And sleep on the bosom of Virtue. 

But no, he must hie to his home, 

To the nest where his bride is awaiting; 
Soon again to our climate he'll come, 

The young glories of Athens relating, 
The baseness of kings to reprove, 

To blush our vile rulers compelling ! — 
Then drink of my goblet, O dove! 

And sleep on the breast of mv Helen. 



THE FALL OF THE LEAVES. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF MILLEVOTE. 

Autumn had stripped the grove, and strewed 

The vale with leafy carpet o'er — 
Shorn of its mystery the wood, 

And Philomel bade sing no more — 
Yet one still hither comes to feed 

His gaze on childhood's merry path; 
For him, sick youth! poor invalid! 

Lonely attraction still it hath. 

"I come to bid you farewell brief, 

Here, my infancy's wild haunt! 
For death gives in each falling leaf 

Sad summons to your visitant. 
'Twas a stern oracle that told 

My dark decree, ' The woodland bloom 
Once more 'tis given thee to behold. 

Then comes th' inexorable tomb!'' 

Th' eternal cypress, balancing 

Its tall form like some funeral thing 

In silence o'er my head, 
Tells me my youth shall wither fast, 
Ere the grass fades — yea, ere the last 

Stalk from the vine is shed. 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



I di* ! Yos, with his icy breath 

Fixed Fate has frozen up my blood ; 

And by the chilly blast of Death 

Nipped is my life's spring in the bud. 

Fall ! fall, O transitory leaf! 

And cover well this path of sorrow; 
Hide from my mother's searching grief 

The spot where I'll be laid to-morrow. 

But should my loved one's fairy tread 
Seek the sad dwelling of the dead, 

Silent, alone, at eve ; 
Oh, then with rustling murmur meet 
The echo of her coming feet, 

And sign of welcome give ! " 

Such was the sick youth's last sad thought : 

Then slowly from the grove he moved ; 
Next moon that way a corpse was brought, 

And buried in the bower he loved. 
But at his grave no form appealed, 

No fairy mourner: through the wood 
The shepherd's tread alone was heard 

In the sepulchral solitude. 



LINES ON THE BURIAL OF A FRIEND'S 
DAUGHTER AT PASSY, JULY 16, 1832. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF CHATEAUBRIAND. 

Ere that coffin goes down, let it bear on its lid 

The garland of roses 
Which the hand of a father, her mourners amid, 
In silence deposes — 
'Tis the young maiden's funeral hour ! 
From thy bosom, O earth ! sprung that young 

budding rose 
Arid 'tis meet that together thy lap should in- 
close 
The young maid and the flower ! 

Never, never give back the two symbols so pure 

Which to thee we confide ; 

From the breath of this world and its plague-spot 

secure, 

Let them sleep side by side — 

They shall know not its pestilent power ! 

Boon the breath of contagion, the deadly mildew, 



Or the fierce scorching sun, might parch up ai 
they grew 
The young maid and the flower ! 

Poor Eliza ! for thee life's enjoyments have fled, 

But its pangs too are flown ! 
Then go sleep in the grave ! in that cold bridal 
bed 
Death may call thee his own — 
Take this handful cf clay for thy dower ! 
Of a texture wert thou far too gentle to last ; 
'Twas a morning thy life ! now the matins are 
past 
For the maid aud the flower ! 



PRAY FOR ME.— A BALLAD. 



r«on the jeehoh or millevoyb, on ma death-bed at i 



Silent, remote, this hamlet i 

How hushed the breeze ! the eve how caln 
Light through my dying chamber beams, 

But hope comes not, nor healing balm. 
Kind villagers! God bless your shed! 

Hark ! 'tis for prayer — the evening bell — 
Oh, stay ! and near my dying bed, 

Maiden, for me your rosary tell ! 

When leaves shall strew the waterfall 

In the sad close of autumn drear, 
Say, " The sick youth is freed from all 

The pangs and woe he suffered here." 
So may ye speak of him that's gone ; 

But when your belfry tolls my knell, 
Pray for the soul of that lost one — 

Maiden, for me your rosary tell ! 

Oh ! pity her, in sable robe, 

Who to my grassy grave will come : 
Nor seek a hidden wound to probe — 

She was my love ! — point out my tomb ; 
Tell her my life should have been hers — 

'Twas but a day ! — God's will ! — 'tis well 
But weep with her, kind villagers! 

Maiden, for me your rosary tell ! 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



THE FRENCH FIDDLER'S LAMENTATION. 

My poor dog! here! of yesterday's festival-cake 

Eat the poor remains in sorrow; 
for when next a repast you and I shall make, 
It must be on brown bread, which, for charity's 
sake, 
Your master must beg or borrow. 

Of these strangers the presence and pride in 
France 
Is to me a perfect riddle; 
They have conquered, no doubt, by some fatal 

chance — 
For they haughtily said, "You must play us a 
dance ! " 
I refused — and they broke my fiddle ! 

Of our village the orchestra, crushed at one stroke, 

By that savage insult perished ! 
'Twas then that our pride felt the strangers' yoke, 
When the insolent hand of a foreigner broke 

What our hearts so dearly cherished. 

For whenever our youth heard it merrily sound, 

A flood of gladness shedding, 
At the dance on the green they were sure to be 

found ; 
While its music assembled the neighbors around 

To the village maiden's wedding. 

By the priest of the parish its note was pro- 
nounced 
To be innocent " after service ;" 
And gayly the wooden-shoed peasantry bounced 
On the bright Sabbath-day, as they danced unde- 
nounced 
By pope, or bonze, or dervis. 

How dismally slow will the Sabbath now run, 
Without fiddle, or flute, or tabor — 

How sad is the harvest when music there's 
none — 

How sad is the vintage sans fiddle begun ! — 
Dismal and tuneless labor ! 

In that fiddle a solace for grief we had got ; 

'Twas of peace the best preceptor ; 
For its sound made all quarrels subside on the 

spot, 
And its bow went much farther to soothe our 
hard lot 
Than the crosier or the sceptre. 



But a truce to my grief! — for an insult so base 
A new pulse in my heart hath awoken ! 

That affront I'll revenge on their insolent race; 

Gird a sword on my thigh — let a musket replace 
The fiddle their hand has broken. 

My friends, if I fall, my old corpse in the crowd 
Of slaughtered martyrs viewing, 

Shall say, while they wrap my cold limbs in a 
shroud, 

'Twas not his fault if some a barbarian allowed 
To dance in our country's ruin 1 



CONSOLATION 



Ir your bosom beats high, if your pulse quicker 

grows, 
When in visions ye fancy the wreath of the Muse, 
There's the path to renown — there's the path to 
repose — 
Ye must choose ! ye must choose I 
mm 

Manoel, thus the destiny rules thy career, 
And thy life's web is woven with glory and woe ; 
Thou wert nursed on the lap of the Muse, and 
thy tear 
Shall unceasingly flow. 

Oh, my friend ! do not envy the vulgar their joys, 
Nor the pleasures to which their low nature is 

prone ; 
For a nobler ambition our leisure employs — 
Oh, the lyre is our own ! 

And the future is ours ! for in ages to come, 
The admirers of genius an altar will raise 
To the poet ; and Fame, till her trumpet is dumb, 
Will re-echo our praise. 

Poet! Glory awaits thee; her temple is thine; 
But there's one who keeps vigil, if entrance you 

claim — 
'Tis Misfortune ! she sits in the porch of the 

shrine, 
The pale portress of Fame. 

Saw not Greece an old man, like a pilgrim ar- 
rayed, 
With his tale of old Troy, and a staff in his hand, 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHON*. 



257 



Beg his bread at the door of each hut, as he 
strayed 
Through his own classic land 1 

And because he had loved, though unwisely, yet 
well; 

Mark what was the boon by bright beauty be- 
stowed — 

Blush, Italy, blush ! for yon maniac's cell 
It was Tasso's abode. 

Hand in hand Woe and Genius must walk here 

below, 
And the chalice of bitterness, mixed for mankind, 
Must be quaffed by us all ; but its waters o'er- 
flow 
For the noble of mind. 

Then the heave of thy heart's indignation keep 
down; 

Be the voice of lament never wrung from thy 
pride ; 

Leave to others the weakness of grief; take re- 
nown 
With endurance allied. 

Lei them banish far off and proscribe (for they 

can) 
Saddened Portugal's son from his dear native 

plains ; 
But no tyrant can place the free soul under ban, 
Or the spirit in chains. 

No ! the frenzy of faction, though hateful, though 

strong, 
From the banks of the Tagus can't banish thy 

fame : 
Still the halls of old Lisbon shall ring with thy 

song 
And resound with thy name. 

When Dante's attainder his townsmen repealed — 
When the sons stamped the deeds of their sires 

with abhorrence, 
They summoned reluctant Ravenna to yield 
Back his fame to his Florence. 

And with both hands uplifted Love's bard ere he 
breathed 

His last sigh, far away from his kindred and 
home : 

To the Scythians his ashes hath left, but be- 
queathed 
All his glory to Rome. 



THE DOG OF THE THREE DAYS. 
A Ballad, September, 1831. 

With gentle tread, with uncovered head, 

Pass by the Louvre-gate, 
Where buried lie the " men of July ! " 
And flowers are flung by the passers-by, 

And the dog howls desolate. 

That dog had fought 

In the fierce onslaught 
Had rushed with his master on : 

And both fought well ; 

But the master fell — 
And behold the surviving one ! 

By his lifeless clay, 

Shaggy and gray, 
His fellow-warrior stood : 

Nor moved beyond, 

But mingled, fond, 
Big tears with his muster's blood. 

Vigil he keeps 

By those green heaps, 
That tell where heroes be : 

No passer-by 

Can attract his eye, 
For he knows " it is not he ! " 

At the dawn, when dew 

Wets the garlands new 
That are hung in this place of mourning, 

He will start to meet 

The coming feet 
Of him whom he dreamt returning. 

On the grave's wood -cross 

When the chaplets toss, 
By the blasts of midnight shaken, 

How he howleth ! Hark ' 

From that dwelling dark 
The slain he would fain awaken. 

When the snow comes fast 

On the chilly blast, 
Blanching the bleak churchyard, 

With limbs outspread 

On the dismal bed 
Of his liege, he still keeps guard. 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



Oft in the night, 


ii. 


With main and might, 


A priest of Egypt sat meanwhile 


He strives to raise the stone ■ 


Under a lofty palm, 


Short respite takes — 


And gazing on his native Nile, 


" If roaster wakes, 


As in a mirror calm, 


He'll call me " — then sleeps on. 


He saw a lowly Lotus plant — 




Pale orphan of the flood. 


Of bayonet-blades, 


And well did th' aged hierophant 


Of barricades, 


Mark the mysterious bud : 


And guns, he dreameth most; 


For he fitly thought, as he saw it float 


Starts from his dream, 


O'er the waste of waters wild, 


And then would seem 


That the symbol told of the cradle boat 


To eye a bleeding ghost. 


Of the wondrous Hebrew child. 




Nor was that bark-like Lotus dumb 


He'll linger there 


Of a mightier infant yet to come, 


In sad despair, 


Whose graven skiff in hieroglyph 


And die on his master's grave. 


Marks obelisk and catacomb. 


His name ? Tis known 




To the dead alone — 


in. 


He's the dog of the nameless brave ! 


A Greek sat on Colonna's cape, 




In his lofty thoughts alone, 


Give a tear to the dead, 


And a volume lay on Plato's lap, 


And give some bread 


For he was that lonely one. 


To the dog of the Louvre gate ! 


And oft as the sage gazed o'er the page 


Where buried lie the men of July, 


His forehead radiant grew ; 


.An J flowers are flung by the passers-by, 


For in Wisdom's womb of the Word to come 


And the dog howls desolate. 


The vision blessed his view. 




He broached that theme in the Academe, 




In the teachful olive grove ; 




And a chosen few that secret knew 






In the Porch's dim alcove. 


THE MISTLETOE, 


IV. 




A Sibyl sat in Cumse's cave — 


A TYPE OF THE HEAVEN-BORN. 


'Twas the hour of infant Rome — 




And vigil kept, and warning gave 


*■ 


Of the holy one to come. 


A prophet sat by the Temple gate, 


'Twas she who had culled the hallowed branch, 


And he spake each passer-by — 


And sat at the silent helm, 


In thrilling tone — with word of weight, 


When ^Eneas, sire of Rome, would launch 


And fire in his rolling eye. 


His bark o'er Hades' realm. 


" Pause thee, believing Jew ! 


And now she poured her vestal soul 


Nor move one step beyond, 


Through many a bright illumined scroll ; 


Until thy heart hath pondered 


By priest and sage of an after-age 


The mystery of this wand." 


Conned in the lofty capitol. 


Ami a rod from his robe he drew — 




Twas a withered bough torn long ago 


v. 


From th'e trunk on which it grew, 


A Druid stood in the dark oak wood 


B v the branch long torn showed a bud new 


Of a distant northern land, 


born 


And he seemed to hold a sickle of gold 


That had blossomed there anew. 


In the grasp of his withered hand ; 


'Twas Jesse's rod ! 


And slowly moved around the girth 


And the bud was the birth of God. 


Of an aged oak, to see 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



■ If a blessed plant of wondrous birth 
Had clung to the old oak tree. 

And anon he knelt, and from his belt 
Unloosened his golden blade, 

Then rose and culled the Mistletoe 
Under the woodland shade. 

VI. 

O blessed bough ! meet emblem thou 

Of all dark Egypt knew, 
Of all foretold to the wise of old, 

To Roman, Greek, and Jew. 
And long God grant, time-honored plant, 

May we behold thee hung 
In cottage small, as in baron's hall, 

Banner and shield among. 
Thus fitly rule the mirth of Yule 

Aloft in thy place of pride ; 
Still usher forth in each land of the north 

The solemn Christmas tide. 



SHOOTING STARS. 

*SH.tis2.!»D . :hey say that a star presides 

Over life 8 " — " 'Tis a truth, my son ! 
Its secrets from men the firmament hides, 

But tells to some favored one." — 
" Shepherd ! they say that a link unbroken 

Connects our fate with some favorite star ; 
What may yon shooting light betoken, 

That falls, falls, and is quenched afar ? " 
" The death of a mortal, my son, who held 

In his banqueting-hall high revel ; 
And his music was sweet, and his wine excelled, 

Life's path seemed long and level : 
No sign was given, no word was spoken, 

His pleasure death comes to mar." 
" But what does yon milder light betoken, 

That falls, falls, and is quenched afar » " 

*'Tis tne knell of beauty ! — it marks the close 

Of a pare and gentle maiden ; 
And her cheek was warm with its bridal rose, 

And her brow with its bride-wreath laden : — 
The thousand hopes young love had woken 

Lie crushed, and her dream is past." — 
* But what can yon rapid light betoken, 

That falls, falls, and is quenched so fast ? " 
"'Tis the emblem, my son, of quick decay ! 

'Tis a rich lorj's child newly bom : 



The cradle that holds his inanimate clay, i 

Gold, purple, and silk adorn ; 
The panders prepared through life to haunt him 

Must seek some one else in his room." — 
" Look, now ! what means yon dismal phantom 

That falls, falls, and is lost in gbom ?" 

" There, son ! I see the guilty thought 

Of a haughty statesman fail, 
Who the poor man's comforts sternly sough J 

To plunder or curtail. 
His former sycophants have cursed 

Their idol's base endeavor." — 
"But watch the light that now has burst, 

Falls, falls, and is quenched forever 1" 

" What a loss, O my son, was there ! 

Where shall hunger now seek relief f 
The poor, who are gleaners elsewhere, 

Could reap in his field full sheaf! 
On the evening he died, his door 

Was thronged with a weeping crowd." — 
" Look, 'shepherd ! there's one star more 

That falls, and is quenched in a cloud." 

" 'Tis a monarch's star ? Do thou preserve 

Thy innocence, my child ! 
Nor from thy course appointed swerve, 

But there shine calm and mild. 
Of thy star, if the sterile ray 

For no useful purpose shone, 
At thy death, ' See that star,' they'd say ; 

'It falls! falls! is past and gone! ' " 



A PANEGYRIC ON GEESE (1810). 

I hate to siug your hackneyed birds— 

So, doves and swans, a truce ! 
Your nests have been too often stin^d 
My hero shall be — in a word — 
A goose. 

The nightingale, or else " bulbul,'' 

By Tommy Moore let loose, 
Is grown intolerably dull — 
I from the feathered nation cull 
A goose. 

Can roasted Philomel a liver 
Fit for a pie produce i 



2t>0 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



Fat pies that on the Rhine's sweet river 
Fair Strasburg bakes. Pray who's the giver ? 
A goose ! 

An ortolan is good to eat, 

A partridge is of use ; 
But they are scarce — whereas you meet 
At Paris, ay, in every street, 

A goose ! 

When tired of war the Greeks became, 

They pitched Troy to the deuce ; 
Ulysses, then, was not to blame 
For teaching thetu the noble " game 
Of goose." 

May Jupiter and Bonaparte, 

Of thunder less profuse, 
Suffer their eagles to depart, 
Encourage peace, and take to heart 
A goose. 



ODE TO TIME. 



If my mind's independence one day I'm to sell, 
If with Vice in her pestilent haunts Tin to 
dwell- 
Then in mercy, I pray thee, Time ! 
Ere that day of disgrace and dishonor comes on, 
Let my life be cut short ! — better, better be gone 
Than live here on the wages of crime. 

But if yet I'm to kindle a flame in the soul 
Of the noble and free — if my voice can console, 

In the day of despondency, some — 
If I'm destined to plead in the poor man's de- 
fence — 
If my writings can force from the national sense 

An enactment of joy for his home:* 

Time ! retard thy departure ! and linger awhile — 
Let my " songs" still awake of my mother the 
smile — 
Of my sister the joy, as she sings. 
Cut, O Glory and Virtue ! your care I engage ; 
When I'm old — when my head shall be silvered 
with age, 
Come and shelwr my brow with your wings ! 



> O'Connell'8 conduct on. the Poor L»w for 



THE GARRET OF BERANGER. 

Oh ! it was here that Love his gifts bestowed 

On youth's wild age ! 
Gladly once more I seek ray youth's abode, 

In pilgrimage : 
Here my young mistress with her poet dared 

Reckless to dwell : 
She was sixteen, I twenty, and we shared 

This attic cell. 



Yes, 'twas a garret ! be it known to all 

Here was Love's shrine ; 
There read, in charcoal traced along the wall, 

Th' unfinished line — 
Here was the board where kindred hearts wonld 
blend — 

The Jew can tell 
How oft I pawned my watch, to feast a friend 

In attic cell ! 



Oh ! my Lisette's fair form could I recall 

With fairy wand ; 
There she would blind the window with aer 
shawl — 

Bashful, yet fond. 
What though from whom she got her dress Pre 

Learnt but too well, 
Still in those days I envied not a prince 
In attic cell ! 

Here the glad tidings on our banquet burst, 

'Mid the bright bowls : 
Yes, it was here Marengo's triumph first 

Kindled our souls. 
Bronze cannon roared ; Fiance with redoubled 
might 

Felt her heart swell. 
Proudly we drank our consul's health -that night 

In attic cell ! 

Dreams of my joyful youth ! Fd freely give, 

Ere my life's close, 
All the dull days I'm destined yet to live, 

For one of those. 
Where shall I now find raptures that were felt, 

Joys that befell, 
And hopes that dawned at tweity, when I dtrelt 

In attic cell ? . 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



POLITICAL ECONOMY OF THE GYPSIES. 

Sons of witchcraft ! tribe of thiev« ! 
Whom the villager believes 

To deal with Satan, 
Tell us your customs and your rules : 
Whence came ye to this land of fools, 

On whom ye fatten ? 

" Whence do we come ? Whence comes the swal- 
low? 
Where does our home lie ? Try to follow 

'The wild bird's flight, 
Speeding from winter's rude approach : 
Such home is ours. Who dare encroach 

Upon our right? 

Prince we have none, nor gypsy throne, 
Nor magistrate nor priest we own, 

Nor tax nor claim ; 
Blithesome, we wander reckless, free, 
And happy two days out of three : 

Who'll say the same ? 

Away with church-enactments dismal! 
We have no liturgy baptismal 

When we are born , 
Save the dance under greenwood tree, 
And the glad sound of revelry 

With pipe and horn. 

At our first entrance on this globe, 
Where Falsehood walks in varied robe, 

Caprice, and whims, — 
Sophist or bigot, heed ye this ! — 
The swathing-bands of prejudice 

Bound not our limbs. 

Well do we ken the vulgar mind, 
Ever to Truth and Candor blind, 

But led by Cunning; 
What rogue can tolerate a brother ? 
Gypsies contend with priests, each other 

In tricks outrunning. 

Your ' towered cities' please us not ; 
But give us some secluded spot, 

Far from the millions : 
Far from the busy haunts of men, 
Rise for the night, in shady glen, 

Our dark pavilions. 



Soon we are off; for we can see 
Nor pleasure nor philosophy 

In fixed dwelling. 
Ours is a life — the life of clowns, 
Or drones who vegetate in towns, 

Far, far excelling ! 

Paddock and park, fence and inclosure, 
We scale with ease and with composure : 

'Tis quite delightful ! 
Such is our empire's mystic charm, 
We are the owners of each farm, 

More than the rightful. 

Great is the folly of the wise, 
If on relations he relies, 

Or trusts in men ; 
' Welcome !' they say, to babes born newly, 
But when your life is eked out duly, 

' Good evening !' then 

None among us seeks to illude 
By empty boast of brotherhood, 

Or false affection ; 
Give, when we die, our souls to God, 
Our body to the grassy sod, 

Or 'for 



Your noblemen may talk of vassals, 
Proud of their trappings and their tassels ; 

But never heed them : 
Our's is the life of perfect bliss — 
Freedom is man's best joy, and this 

Is PERFECT FREEDOM !" 



THE GOD OF BERANGER. 

T&ere's a God whom the poet in silence adores, 

But molests not his throne with importunate 
prayer ; 
For he knows that the evil 

There is blessing to 
pair. 
But the plan of the Deity beams in the bowl, 

And the eyelid of beauty reveals his design : 
Oh ! the goblet in hand, I abandon my soul 

To the Giver of genius, love, friendship, and 



sees and abhors, 
and balm to re- 



262 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



At the door of my dwelling the children of want 
Ever find the full welcome its roof can afford. 
While the dreams of the rich pain and poverty 
haunt, 
Peace awaits on my pillow, and joy at my 
board. 
Let the god of the court other votaries seek — 
No ! the idol of sycophants never was mine ; 
But I worship the God of the lowly and meek, 
In the Giver of genius, love, friendship, and 
wine. 

I have seen die a captive, of courtiers bereft, 
Him, the sound of whose fame through our 
hemisphere rings ; 
I have marked both his rise and his fall : he has 
left 
The imprint of his heel on the forehead of 
kings. 
Oh, ye monarchs of Europe ! ye crawled round 
his throne — 
Ye, who now claim our homage, then knelt at 
his shrine ; 
But I never adored him, but turned me alone 
To the Giver of genius, love, friendship, and 
wine. 

The Russians have dwelt in the home of the 
Frank ; 
In our halls from their mantles they've shaken 
the frost ; 
Of their war-boots our Louvre has echoed the 
clank, 
As they passed, in barbarian astonishment lost. 
O'er the ruins of France, take, England ! take 
pride ! 
Yet a similar downfall, proud land ! may be 
thine; 
But the poet of freedom still, still will confide 
In the Giver of genius, love, friendship, and 



This planet is doomed, by the priesthood's decree, 
To deserved dissolution one day, O my friends! 
Lo ! the hurricane gathers, the bolt is set free, 
And the thunder on wings of destruction de- 
scends. 
Of thy trumpet, archangel, delay not the blast; 
Wake the dead in the graves where their 
ashes recline : 
While the poet, unmoved, puts his trust to the 
last 



In the Giver of genius, love, friends 
wine. 



and 



But away with the nightmare of gloomy fore- 
thought ! 
Let the ghoul Superstition creep back to ita 
den; 
Oh! this fair goodly globe, filled with plenty, 
was wrought 
By a bountiful hand, for the children of men- 
Let me take the full scope of my years as they 
roll, 
Let me bask in the sun's pleasant rays while 
they shine ; 
Then, with goblet in hand, I'll abandon my soul 
To the Giver of genius, love, friendship, and 



THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF P. J. DE 
BERANGER. 

Paris! gorgeous abode of the gay! Paris! 
haunt of despair ! 
There befell in thy bosom one day an occur- 
rence most weighty, 
At the house of a tailor, my grandfather, under 
whose care 
I was nursed, in the year of our Lord seven- 
teen hundred and eighty. 
By no token, 'tis true, did my cradle announce 
a young Horace — 
And the omens were such as might well lead 
astray the unwary ; 
But with utter amazement one morning my 
grandfather, Maurice, 
Saw his grandchild reclining asleep in the 
arms of a fairy. 
And this fairy so handsome 
Assumed an appearance so striking, 
And for me seemed to take such a liking, 
That he knew not what gift he should offer 
the dame for my ransom. 

Had he previously studied thy Legends, O rar# 
Crofty Croker ! 
He'd have learnt how to act from thy pages— 
('tis there that the charm is), 
But my guardian's first impulse was rather fc> 
look for the poker, 
To rescue his beautiful boy from her hands 
vi et armis. 






POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY 



Yet he paused in his plan, and adopted a milder 



For her attitude, calm and unterrlfied, made 
him respect her. 
So ha thought it was best to be civil, and fairly 
to question, 
Concerning my prospects in life, the benevo- 
lent spectre. 
And the fairy, prophetical, 
Read my destiny's book in a minute, 
With all the particulars in it : 
And its outline she drew with exactitude most 
geometrical. 

" His career shall be mingled with pleasure, 
though checkered with pain, 
And some bright sunny hours shall succeed to 
a rigorous winter : 
See him first a garqon at a hostelry — then, with 
disdain 
See him spurn that vile craft, and apprentice 
himself to a printer. 
As a poor university-clerk view him next at his 
desk ; — 
ilart that flash! 1 — he will have a most nar- 
row escape from the lightning: 
But behold after sundry adventures, some bold, 
some grotesque, 
The horizon clears up, ant. his prospects appear 
to be brightening." . 

Anc the fairy, caressing 
The iufant, foretold that, ere long, 
He would warble unrivalled in song; 
All France in the homage which Paris had 
paid acquiescing. 

" Yes, the muse has adopted the boy ! On his 
brow see the laurel ! 
In his hand 'tis Anacreon's cup ! — with the 
Greek he has drank it. 
Mark the high-minded tone of his songs, and 
their exquisite moral, 
Giving joy to the cottage, and heightening the 
. blaze of the banquet. 
Now the future grows dark — see the spectacle 
France has become ! 
'Mid the wreck of his country, the poet, un- 
daunted and proud, 

1 Beranger tells us in a note, that in early life he had well nigh 
perished by the electric fluid in a thunder-storm. The same is re- 
lated of Luther, when at the university. The flash which, in Lu- 
ther's case, changed the student into a monk, in Beranger's con- 
verted the tailor'B goose into a swan. 



To the public complaints shall give utterance: 
slaves may be dumb, 
But he'll ring in the hearing of despots defiance 
aloud !" 
And the fairy addressing 
My grandfather, somewhat astonished, 
So mildly my guardian admonished, 
That he wept while he vanished away with a 
smile and a blessing. 



MEDITATIONS IN A WINE-CELLAR. 



BY THE JESUIT VANIEKE. 



I've taught thus far a vineyard how to plant, 
Wielded the pruning-hook aud plied the 
hoe, 
And trod the grape ; now, Father Bacchus, 
grant 
Entrance to where, in many a goodly row, 
You keep your treasures safely lodged below 
Well have I earned the privilege I ask ; 

Then proudly down the cellar-steps I go : 
Fain would I terminate my tuneful task, 
Pondering before each pipe, communing with 
each cask. 

Hail, horrors, hail ! Welcome, Cimmerian cel- 
lar ! 
Of liquid bullion inexhausted mine 1 
Cumean cave ! — no sibyl thy indweller : 
Sole Pythoness, the witchery of wine! 
Pleased I explore this sanctuary of thine, 
A humble votary, whom venturous feet 

Have brought into thy subterranean shrine; 
Its mysteries I reverently greet, 
Pacing these solemn vaults in contemplation 
sweet. 



th a lantern though the poet walks, 
Who dares upon those silent halls intrude, 
He cometh not a pupil of Gut Faux, 
O'er treasonable practices to brood 
Within this deep and awful solitude ; 
Albeit Loyola claims him for a son, 

Yet, with the kindliest sympathies imbued 

For every human thing heaven shines upon, 

Naught in his bosom beats but love and benison. 



264 



POEMS OF FRANCIS M.UIONY. 



He knows nor cares not wb:it be other men's 
Notions concerning orthodox belief; 

Oihei-s may seek theology in "Dens," 
He in tliis grot would rather take a leaf 
From Wisdom's book, and of existence brief 

Learn not to waste in empty jars the span. 
If jars thcne must be in ibis vale of grief, 

Let them be full ones; let the flowing can 
Reign umpire of disputes, uniting man with man. 

'Twere better thus than in collegiate hall, 
Where wrangling pedants and dull ponder- 
ous tomes 
Build up Divinity's dark arsenal, 

Grope in the gloom with controversial 

gnomes — 
Geneva's gospel still at war with Rome's : 
Hotter lo bury discord and dissent 

In the calm cellar's peaceful catacombs, 
Than on dogmatic bickerings intent, 
Poison the pleasing hours for man's enjoyment 
meant. 

Doth yonder cask of Burgundy repine 

Th;it some prefer his brother of Bordeaux ? 

Is old Garumxa jealous of the Rhine ? 

Gaul, of ihe grape Germanic vineyards grow? 
Doth Xeres deem bright Lachrtma his 



foe 



On the 



that fringe the blue Mo- 



On Leman's margin, on the plains of Po, 
Pure from one common sky these dewdrops 

fell 
[ast thou preserved the juice in purity ? 'Tis 



Lessons of love, and light, and liberty, 

Lurk in these wooden volumes. Free- 
dom's code 
I Lies there and pity's charter. Poetry 
And genius make their favorite abode 
In double range of goodly puncheons 
stowed ; 
Whence welling up freely, as from a fount, 
The flood of fancy in all time has flowed, 
Gushing with more exuberance, I count, 
Than from Pierian sprang on Greece's fabled 



School of Athenian eloquence ! did not 
Demosthenes, half-tonsured, love to pass 



Winters in such preparatory grot, 
His topics there in fit array to class, 
And stores of wit and argument amass t 
Hath not another Greek of late arisen, 

Whose eloquence partaketh of the glass, 
Whose nose and tropes with rival radianc« 
glisten, 
And unto whom the Peers night after night 
must listen ? 

Say not that wine hath bred dissensions — 
wars; 
Charge not the grape, calumnious, with tjie 
blame 
Of murdered Clytus. Lapithse, Centaurs, 
Drunkards of every age, will aye defame 
The innocent vine to palliate their shame. 
Thyrsus, magic wand ! thou mak'st appear 
Man in his own true colors — vice proclaim, 
Its infamy — sin its foul figure rear, 
Like the recumbent toad touched by Ithuriel's 
spear ! 

A savage may the glorious sun revile, 1 

And shoot his arrows at the god of day; 
Th' ungrateful iEthiop on thy tanks, O Nile ! 
With barbarous shout and insult may repay 
Apollo for his vivifying ray, 
Unheeded by the god, whose fiery team 

Prances along the sky's immortal way ; 
While from his brow, flood-like, the bounte- 
ous beam 
Bursts on the stupid slaves who gracelessly blas- 
pheme. 

That savage outcry some attempt to ape, 
Loading old Bacchus with absurd abuse; 

But, pitying them, the father of the grape, 
And couscious of their intellect obtuse, 
Tells them to go (for answer) to the juice : 

Meantime the god, whom fools would fain an- 
noy, 
Rides on a cask, and, of his wine profuse, 



1 Le Nil a vu sur ses rivages 

Les noirs habitans de9 deserte 
Insulter, par de cris sauvages, 

I/astre brlllant de l'univers. 
Cris impuissaris! fureurs bizarresl 
Tandis qne ces monstres barbares 

Puussent d'inutlles elamenrs, 
Le Dieu, poursutvam sa carrier*, 
Verse des torrett3 de lutniere 

Sur ses ohscurs blasphematears." 

lefranc de Pompignan 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



Sends up to earth the flood without alloy, 
Whence round the general globe circles the cup 
of joy. 

Hard was thy fate, much-injured Hylas ! whom 
The roguish Naiads of the fount entrapped; 
Thine was, in sooth, a melancholy doom — 
In liquid robes for wintry wardrobe wrap- 
ped, 
And " in Elysium" of spring- water "lapped!" 
Better if hither thou hadst been enticed, 
Where casks abound and generous wine is 
tapped ; 
Thou wouldst not feel as now, thy limbs all 
iced, 
But deem thyself in truth blessed and impara- 



A Roman king — the second of the 

Numa, who reigned upon Mount Palatine, 
Possessed a private grotto called EgericCs ; 
Where, being in the legislative line, 
He kept an oracle men deemed divine. 
What nymph it was from whom his " law " he 
got 
None ever knew; but jars, that smelt of 
wine, 
Have lately been discovered in a grot 
Of that Eyerian vale. Was this the nymph ? 
God wot. 

Here would I dwell ! Oblivious ! ' aye shut 
out 
Passions and pangs that plague the human 
heart, 
Content to range this goodly grot throughout, 
Loath, like the lotus-eater, to depart, 
Deeming this cave of joy the genuine mart; 
Cellar, though dark and dreary, yet I ween 

Depot of brightest intellect thou art. 
Calm reservoir of sentiment serene! 
Miscellany of mind ' wit ; « glorious magazine. 



LINES ON A MOTH-EATEN BOOK. 

FROM THE LATIN OF BEZA. 

The soldier soothes in his behalf 
Bellona, with a victim calf; 



The farmer's fold victims exhaust — 
Ceres must have her holocaust : 
And shall the bard alone refuse 
A votive offering to his muse, 
Proving the only uncompliant, 
Unmindful, and ungrateful client? 

What gift, what sacrifice select, 
May best betoken his respect ? 
Stay, let me think — 0, happy notion ! 
What can denote more true devotion, 
What victim gave more pleasing odor, 
Than yon small grub, yon wee corroder, 
Of sluggish gait, of shape uncouth, 
With Jacobin destructive tooth ? 

Ho, creeper ! thy last hour is come ; 

Be thou the muses' hecatomb! 8 

With whining tricks think not to gull us: 

Have I not caught thee in Catullus, 

Converting into thy vile marrow 

His matchless ditty on "the Sparrow!" 

Of late, thy stomach had been partial 

To sundry tit-bits out of Martial ; 

Nay, I have traced thee, insect kecn-eycd ! 

Through the fourth book of Maro's "yfincid 

On vulgar French couldst not thou fatten, 

And curb thy appetite for Latin ? 

Or, if thou wouldst take Latin from us, 

Why not devour Duns Scot and Thomas! 

Might not the "Digest" and "Decretals" 

Have served thee, varlet, for thy victuals! 

Victim ! come forth ! crawl from thy nook ! 

Fit altar be this injured book ; 

Caitiff! 'tis vain slyly to simulate 

Torpor and death; thee this shall immolate— 

This penknife, fitting guillotine 

To shed a bookworm's blood obscene I 

Nor can the poet better mark his 

Zeal for the muse than on thy 



The deed is done ! the insect Goth 
Unmourned (save by maternal moth), 
Slain without mercy or remorse, 
Lies there, a melancholy corse. 
The page he had profaned 'tis meet 
Should be the robber's winding-sheet; 
While for the deed the muse dtcrees a 
Wreath of her brightest bays to Beza. 

' Quere, Hack, a tome 1— Printer's Devil. 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 






THE FOUNTAIN OF ST. NAZARO. 

FHOM THE LATIN OK SANNAZAR. 

There's a fount at the foot of Pausilipe's hill, 

Springing up on our bay's sunny margin, 
And the mariner loveth his vessel to fill 

At this fount, of which I am the guardian. 
Tis the gem of my villa, the neighborhood's 
boast, 

And with pleasure and pride I preserve it; 
For alone it wells out, while the vine-covered 
coast 

In the summer lies panting and fervid. 

When the plains are all parched, and the rivers 
run low, 

Then a festival conies I love dearly: 
Here, with goblet in band, my devotion I show 

To the day of my birth that comes yearly. 
Tis the feast of my patron, Nazaro the Saint; 

Nor for aught that fond name would I barter : 
To this fount I have fixed that fond name, to ac- 
quaint 

All mankind with my love for the martyr. 

He's the tutelar genius of me and of mine, 

And to honor the saints is my motto : 
Unto him I devoted this well, and a shrine 

Unto him I have built in the grotto. 
There his altar devoutly with shells I have 
decked — 

I have decked it with crystal and coral ; 
And have strewed all the pavement with branches 
select 

Of the myrtle, the pine, and the laurel. 

By the brink of this well will I banquet the day 

Of my birth, on its yearly recurring; 
Then at eve, when the bonny breeze wrinkles the 
bay, 

And the leaves of the citron are stirring, 
Beneath my calm dwelling before I repair, 

To the Father of mercy addressing, 
In a spirit of thankfulness, gratitude's prayer, 

I'll invoke on his creatures a blessing. 

And long may the groves of Pausilipe shade 
By this fount, holy martyr, thy client: 

ITins long may he bless thee for bountiful aid, 
And remain on thy bounty reliant. 



To thy shrine shall the maids of Parthenope 
bring 

Lighted tapers, in yearly procession; 
While the pilgrim hereafter shall visit this spring, 

1>o partake of the Saint's intercession. 



PETRARCA'S DREAM. 

(AFTER THE DEATH OF LAURA.) 

She has not quite forgotten me ; her shade 

My pillow still doth haunt, 

A nightly visitant, 
To soothe the sorrows that herself had made: 

And thus that spirit blessed, 
Shedding sweet influence o'er my hour of rest, 
Hath healed my woes, and all my love repaid. 

Last night, with holy calm, 

She stood before my view, 

And from her bosom drew 
A wreath of laurel and a branch of palm : 

And said, "To comfort thee, 
child of Italy ! 
From my immortal home, 
Petrarca, I am come," etc., etc. 



ON SOLAR ECLIPSES. 

(a new theory.) 

For the use of the London University. 

All heaven, I swear by Styx that njlls 
Its dark flood round the land of souls ! 

Shall play this day at "Blind man's bi 
Come, make arrangements on the spot; 
Prepare the 'kerchief, draw the lot — 

So Jove commands ! Enough ! 

Lot fell on Sol : the stars were struck 
At such an instance of ill luck. 

Then Luna forward came, 
And bound with gentle, modest hand, 
O'er his bright brow the muslin band: 

Hence mortals learned the zame. 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHON1' 



THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT. 



There's a legend that's told of a gypsy who 
dwelt 
In the land where the Pyramids be ; 
And her robe was embroidered with stars, and 
her belt 
With devices, right wondrous to see: 
And she lived in the days when our Lord was a 
child / 

On his mother's immaculate breast; 
When he fled from his foes — when to Egypt 
exiled, 
He went down with St. Joseph the blessed. 

This Egyptian held converse with magic, me- 
thinks, 

And the future was given to her gaze ; 
For an obelisk marked her abode, and a sphinx 

On her threshold kept vigil always. 
She was pensive and ever alone, nor was seen 

In the haunts of the dissolute crowd ; 
But communed with the ghosts of the Pharaohs, 
I ween, 

Or with visitors wrapped in a shroud. 

And there came an old man from the desert one 
day, 

With a maid on a mule, by that road ; 
And a child on her bosom reclined — and the way 

Led them straight to the gypsy's abode : 
And they seemed to have travelled a wearisome 
path, 

From their home many, many a league — 
From a tyrant's pursuit, from an enemy's wrath, 

Spent with toil, and o'ercome with fatigue. 

And the gypsy came forth from her dwelling, 
and prayed 

That the pilgrims would rest them awhile ; 
And she offered her couch to that delicate maid, 

Who had come many, many a mile ; 
And she fondled the babe with affection's caress, 

And she begged the old man would repose ; 
" Here the stranger," she said, " ever finds free 
access, 

And the wanderer balm for his woes." 

Then her guests from the glare of the noonday 
she led 



To a seat in her grotto so cool ; 
Where she spread them a banquet of fruits— and 
a shed, 
With a manger, was found for the mule ; 
With the wine of the palm-tree, with the dates 
newly culled, 
All the toil of the road she beguiled, 
And with song in a language mysterious sh» 
lulled 
On her bosom the wayfaring child. 

When the gypsy anon in her Ethiop hand 

Placed the infant's diminutive palm, 
Oh, 'twas fearful to see how the features she 
scanned 
Of the babe in his slumber so calm. 
Well she noted each mark and each furrow that 
crossed 
O'er the tracings of destiny's line : 
"Whence came ye?" she cried, in astonishmen 
lost, 
"For this child is or lineage divine!" 

"From the village of Nazareth," Joseph replied, 

" Where we dwelt in the land of the Jew ; 
We have fled from a tyrant, whose garment '*> 
dyed 

In the gore of the children he slew. 
We were told to remain till an angel's com- 
mand 

Should appoint us the hour to return ; 
But till then we inhabit the foreigner's land, 

And in Egypt we make our sojourn." 

"Then ye tarry with me!" cried the gypsy m 

joy, 

"And ye make of my dwelling your home : 
Many years have I prayed that the Israelite 
boy 
(Blessed hope of the Gentiles !) would come." 
And she kissed both the feet of the infant, and 
knelt, 
And adored him at once ; — then a smile 
Lit the face of his mother, who cheerfully dwelt 
With her host on the banks of the Nile. 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



THE VEIL. AN ORIENTAL DIALOGUE. 



FROM THE FRKNOH OF VICTOR HUGO. 



"Hav« you prayed to-night, 

THE SISTER. 

What has happened, my brothers ? Your spirit 
to-day 
Some secret sorrow damps: 
There's a cloud on your brow. What has hap- 
pened ? oh, say ! 
For your eyeballs glare out with a sinister ray, 
Like the light of funeral lamps. 

The blades of your poniards are half-unsheathed 
In your zone — and ye frown on me 1 

There's a woe untold, there's a paug unbreathed, 
In your bosom, my brothers three I 

ELDEST BROTHER. 

Gulnara. make answer! Hast thou, since the dawn, 
To the eye of a stranger thy veil withdrawn? 

THE SISTER. 

As T came, my brothers ! — at noon — from the 
bath— 
As 1 came — it was noon — my lords — 
And your sister had then, as she constantly hath, 
Drawn her veil close around her, aware that the 
path 
Is beset by these foreign hordes. 

But the weight of the noonday's sultry hour 
Near the mosque was so oppressive, 

That — fnrgeiting a moment the eye of the 
Giaour — 
I yielded to heat excessive. 

SECOND BROTHER. 

Gulnara, make answer ! Whom, then, hast thou 

seen, 
In a turban of white, and a caftan of green? 

THE SISTER. 

Nay, he might have been there; but I muffled 
me so, 
He could scarce have seen my figure. — 
But why to your sister thus dark do you grow ? 
What words to yourselves do you mutter thus 
low, 
Of "blood,'' and "an intriguer}" 



Oh I ye cannot of murder bring down the red 
guilt 
On your souls, my brothers, surely ! 
Though I fear — from your hand that 1 1«« jtthe 
hilt, 
And the hint* you give obscurely. 

THIRD BROTHER. 

Gulnara ! this evening when sank che red sun, 
Hast thou marked how like blood in descending 
it shone ? 

THE tHii1£H. 

Mercy! Allah! three daggers! have pity! oh, 
spare ! 

See! I cling to your knees repenting! 
Kind brothers, forgive me ! for mercy, forbear ! 
Be appeased at the voice of a sister's despair, 

For your mother's sake relenting. 

God ! must I die ? They are deaf to my cries 
Their sister's life-blood shedding:' 

They have stabbed me again — and I faint — o'ei 
my eyes 
A Veil of Death is spreading ! — 

ELDEST BROTHER. 

Gulnara, farewell ! take that veil ; 'tis the gift 
Of thy brothers — a veil thou wilt never lift! 



THE BRIDE OF THE CYMBALEER. 

A BALLAD FROM VICTOR HUGO. 

" My liege, the Duke of Brittany. 

Has summoned his vassals all, 
The list is a lengthy litany ! 
Nor 'mong them shall ye meet any 

But lords of land and hall. 



pho dwell in donjon-keep, 
And mail-clad count and peer, 
Whose fief is fenced with fosse deep* 
But none excel in soldiership 
My own loved cymbaleer. 

Clashing his cymbals forth he went, 
With a bold and gallant bearing; 
Sure for a captain he was meant, 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



269 



To judge from his accoutrement, 
And the cloth of gold he's wearing. 

But in my soul since then I feel 

A fear, in secret creeping ; 
And to Saint Bridget oft I kneel, 
That she may recommend his weal 

To his guardian angel's keeping 

Fve begged our abbot, Bernardine, 

His prayers not to relax ; 
And, to procure him aid divine, 
I've burnt upon Saint Gilda's shrine 

Three pounds of virgin wax, 

Our Lady of Loretto knows 

The pilgrimage I vowed : 
To wear the scollop I propose, 
If health and safety from the foes 

My lover it allowed. 

No letter (fond affection's gage !) 

From him could I require, 
The pain of absence to assuage — 
A vassal-maid can have no page, 

A liegeman has no squire. 

This day will witness, with the duke's 

My cymbaleer's return : 
Gladness and pride beam in my looks, 
Delay my heart impatient brooks. 

All meaner thoughts I spurn. 

Back from the battle-field elate, 

His banner brings each peer ; 
Come, let us see, at the ancient gate, 
The martial triumph pass in state, 

And the duke and my cymbaleer. 

We'll see from the rampart-walls of Nantz 

What an air his horse assumes ; 
His proud neck swells, his glad hoofs prance, 
And on his head unceasing dance, 
In a gorgeous tuft, red plumes ! 

Be quick, my sisters ! dress in haste ! 

Come, see him bear the bell, 
With laurels decked, with true-love graced ; 
While in his bold hand, fitly placed, 

The bounding cymbals swell ! 

Mark well the mantle that he'll wear, 
Embroidered by his bride : 



Admire his burnished helmet's glare, 
O'ershadowed by the dark horse-hair 
That waves in jet folds wide I 

The gypsy (spiteful wench !) foretold 

With voice like a viper hissing 
(Though I had crossed her palm with gold), 
That from the ranks a spirit bold 

Would be to day found missing. 

But I have prayed so hard, I trust 

Her words may prove untrue; 
Though in her cave the hag accursed 
Muttered " Prepare thee for the worst f" 

With a face of ghastly hue. 

My joy her spells shall not prevent. 

Hark ! I can hear the drums ! 
And ladies fair from silken tent 
Peep forth, and every eye is bent 

On the cavalcade that comes 

Pikemen, dividing on both flanks, 

Open the pageantry ; 
Loud, as they tread, their armor clanks, 
And silk-robed barons lead the ranks, 

The pink of gallantry. 

In scarfs of gold, the priests admire ; 

The heralds on white steeds; 
Armorial pride decks their attire, 
Worn in remembrance of a sire 

Famed for heroic deeds. 

Feared by the Paynim's dark divan, 

The Templars next advance ; 
Then the brave bowmen of Lausanne, 
Foremost to stand in battle's van, 

Against the foes of France. 

Next comes the duke with radiant brow, 

Girt with his cavaliers ; 
Round his triumphant banner bow 
Those of the foe. Look, sisters, now ! 

Now come the cymbaleers !" 

She spoke — with searching eye surveyed 

Their ranks — then pale, aghast, 
Sunk in the crowd ! Death came in aid — 
'Twas mercy to that gentle maid: 
The cymbaleers had passed ! 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY 



THE MILITARY PROFESSION 



On, the pleasant life a soldier leads! 
Let the lawyer count his fees, 
Let old women tell their beads, 
Let each booby squire breed cattle, if he please. 
Far better 'tis, I think, 
To make love, fight, and drink. 
Odds boddekin ! 
Such life makes a man to a god akin. 

Do we enter any town ? 

The portcullis is let down, 
And the joy-bells are rung by municipal author- 
ity; 
The gates are opened wide, 
, And the city-keys presented us beside, 
Merely to recognize our vast superiority. 

The married citizens, 'tis ten to one, 

Would wish us fairly gone; 
But we stay while it suits our good pleasure. 

Then each eve, at the rising of the moon, 

The fiddler strikes up a merry tune, 

We meet a buxom partner full soon, 
And we foot it to a military measure. 

[Chorus of drums. 

When our garrison at last gets "the route," 

Who can adequately tell 
The regret of the. fair all the city throughout, 
And the tone with which they bid us "fare- 
well?" 
Their tears would make a flood — a perfect river : 

And, to soothe her despair, 
Each disconsolate maid entreats of us to give her, 
Ere we go, a single lock of our hair. 
Alas! it is not often 
That my heart can soften 
Responsive to the feelings of the fair. 

[ Chorus of drums 

On a march, when our gallant divisions 

In the country make a halt, 
Think not that we limit our provisions 

To Paddy's fare, " potatoes and salt." 
Could such beggarly cheer 
Ever answer a French grenadier? 

No! we send a dragoon guard 

To each neighboring farmyard, 
To collect the choicest pickings — 



Turkeys, sucking-pigs, and chickens. 
For why should mere rustic rapscallions 

Fatten on such tit-bits, 

Better suited to the spits 
Of our hungry and valorous battalions } 

But, oh 1 at our return 
To our dear native France, 
Each village in its turn, 
With music, and wine, and merry dance, 
Forth on our joyful passage comes; 
And the pulse of each heart beats time to the 
drums. 

[Chorus of drum*. 
Oh, the merry life a soldier leads ! 



TIME AND LOVE. 

Old Time is a pilgrim — with onward course 

He journeys for months, for years ; 
But the trav'ller to-day must halt perforce — 

Behold, a broad river appears ! 
"Pass me over," Time cried ; "Oh ! tarry not, 

For I count each hour with my glass ; 
Ye, whose skiff is moored to yon pleasant spot — 

Young maidens, old Time come pass ! " 

Many maids saw with pity, upon the bank, 

The old man with his glass in grief; 
Their kindness, he said, he would ever thank, 

If they'd row him across in their skiff. 
While some wanted Love to unmoor the bark, 

One wiser in thought sublime: 
" Oft shipwrecks occur," was the maid's remark, 

" Wheu seeking to pass old Time ! " 

From the strand the small skiff Love pushed 
afloat — 

He crossed to the pilgrim's side, 
And taking old Time in his well-trimmed boat, 

Dipped his oars in the flowing tide. 
Sweetly he sung as he worked at the oar, 

And this was his merry song — 
"You see, young maidens who crowd the shore, 

How with Love Time passes along ?" 

But soon the poor boy of his task grew tired, 

As he often had been before ; 
And faint from his toil, for mercy desired 

Father Time to take up the oar. 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY 



271 



In h'/ iar.1 grown tuneful, the pilgrim old 
*Yith the puddles resumed the lay ; 

fiv he changed it and sung, "Young maids, 
tehold 
How with Time Love passes away I" 



PETRARCA'S ADDRESS 

TO THX SUMMER HAUNT OF LAURA. 

Sweet fountain of Vaucluse ! 
The virgin freshness of whose crystal bed 
The ladye, idol of my soul ! hath led 

Within thy wave her fairy bath to choose ! 
And thou, favorite tree ! 

Whose branches she loved best 
To shade her hour of rest — 
Her own dear native land's green mulberry! 
Roses, whose earliest bud 
To her sweet bosom lent 
Fragrance and ornament! 
Zephyrs, who fan the murmuring flood I 
Cool grove, sequestered grot ! 
Here in this lovely spot 
I pour my last sad lay, where first her love I 
wooed. 

If soon my earthly woes 
Must slumber in the tomb, 
And if my life's sad doom 

Must so in sorrow close ! 
Where yonder willow grows 

Close by the margin lay 

My cold and lifeless clay, 
That unrequited love may find repose ! 
Seek thou thy native realm, 

My soul ! and when the fear 

Of dissolution near, 
And doubts shall overwhelm, 
A ray of comfort round 

My dying couch shall hover, 

If some kind hand will cover 
My miserable bones in yonder hallowed ground ! 

But still alive for her 
Oft may my ashes greet 
The sound of coming feet ! 
And Laura's tread gladden my sepulchre! 
Relenting, on my grave, 



My mistress may, perchance, 
With one kind pitying glance 
Honor the dust of her devoted slave. 
Then may she intercede, 

With prayer and sigh, for one 
Who, hence forever gone, 
Of mercy stands in need; 
And while for me her rosary she tells, 
May her uplifted eyes 
Win pardon from the skies, 
While angels through her veil behold the tear 
that swells 1 

Visions of love ! ye dwell 
In memory still enshrined. — 
Here, as she once reclined, 
A shower of blossoms on her bosom fell! 
And while th' enamored tree 
From all its branches thus 
Rained odoriferous, 
She sat, unconscious, all humility. 
Mixed with her golden hair, those blossoms sweet 
Like pearls on amber seemed ; — 
Some their allegiance deemed 
Due to her floating robe and lovely feet : 
Others, disporting, took 
Their course adown the brook : 
Others aloft, wafted in airy sport, 
Seemed to proclaim, "To-day Love holds hi* 
merry court ! " 

I've gazed upon thee, jewel beyond price ! 
Till from my inmost soul 
This secret whisper stole — 
"Of Earth no child art thou, daughter of Para- 
dise ! " 
Such sway, thy beauty held 
O'er the enraptured sense, 
And such the influence 
Of winning smile and form unparalleled ! 
And I would marvel then 
" How came I here, and when, 
Wafted by magic wand, 
Earth's narrow joys beyond ? " 
Oh, I shall ever count 
My happiest days spent here by this romantic 
fount ! 



272 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



THE PORCH OF HELL. 

(dante.) 

"Sick »e the path traceU bi>e tbe toratb of ffioB for 

Miifiill mortals ? 
©t t tie reprobate tin's is tbe state, tljese are tbe Qloumj 

portals. 
ffor sin ne aitD crtme from tbe birth of tinue Suflflc teas 

this (Klilpb Cnfcrnal. 
(Sliest! let all fflope on this tbresboltt st op ! jete 

reffliis Bespafr Eternal." 

I read with tears these characters — tears shed 

on man's behalf'; 
Each word seemed fraught with painful thought, 

the lost soul's epitaph. 
Turning dismayed, "0 mystic shade!" I cried, 

"my kiudly Mentor, 
Of comfort, say, can no sweet ray these dark 

dominions enter? " 

"My son!" replied the ghostly guide, "this is 
the dark abode 

Of the guilty dead — alone they tread hell's mel- 
ancholy road. 

Brace up thy nerves! this hour deserves that 
Mind should have control, 

And bid avaunt fears that would haunt the clay- 
imprisoned soul. 

Mine be the task, when thou shalt ask, each mys- 
tery to solve ; 

Anon for us dark Erebus back shall its gates re- 
volve— 

Hell shall disclose its deepest woes, each punish- 
ment, each pang. 

Saint hath revealed, or eye beheld, or flame- 
tongued prophet sang." 

Gates were unrolled of iron mould — a dismal 

dungeon yawned! 
We passed — we stood — 'twas hell we viewed — 

eternity had dawned ! 
Space on our sight burst infinite — echoes were 

heard remote; 
Shrieks loud and drear startled our ear, and 

stripes incessant smote. 

Onward we went. The firmament was starless 

o'er our head, 
Spectres swept by inquiringly — clapping their 

hands they fled 



Borne on the blast strange whispers passed ; and 
ever and anon 

Athwart the plain, like hurricane, God's ven- 
geance would come on ! 

Then sounds, breathed low, of gentler woe soft 

on our hearing stole ; 
Captives so meek fain would I seek to comfort 

aud console : 
" Oh, let us pause and learn the cause of so much 

grief, and why 
Saddens the air of their despair the unavailing 

sigh!" 

" My son ! Heaven grants them utterance in 

plaintive notes of woe ; 
In tears their grief may find relief, but hence 

they never go. 
Fools ! they believed that if they lived blameless 

and vice eschewed, 
God would dispense with excellence, and give 

beatitude. 

They died 1 but naught of virtue brought to win 
their Maker's praise ; 

No deeds of worth the page set forth that chron- 
icled their days. 

Fixed is their doom — eternal gloom ! to mourn 
for what is past, 

And weep aloud amid that crowd with whom 
their lot is cast. 

One fate they share with spirits fair, who, when 
rebellion shook 

God's holy roof, remained aloof, nor part what- 
ever took; 

Drew not the sword against their Lord, nor yet 
upheld his throne: 

Could God for this make perfect bliss theirs when 
the fight was won ? 

The world knows not their dreary lot, nor cau 

assuage their pangs, 
Or cure the curse of fell remorse, or blunt the 

tiger's fangs. 
Mercy disdains to loose their chains — the honr 

of grace has been ! 
Son ! let that class unheeded pass — unwept, 

though not uuseen." 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



A TRUE BALLAD, 



CONTAINING THE FLIGHT OP NAPOLEON BONAPAETK, 
LOSS OP HIS SWORD, HIS HAT, AND IMPERIAL BATON, '. 
WOtaO IN THE HEAD ; THE GOOD LUCK OP 
GETTING HOLD OP HIS VALUABLES, IN DIAMONDS . 
rr- LASTLY, THE HAPPY ENTEY OP H] 
DIX-HOTT, INTO PABLS. 



FROM THE ITALIAN OF NICODEMUS LERMIL. 

Tune—" On Linden when." . 

When Bonaparte, overcome, 

Fled from the sound of Prussian drum, 

Aghast, discomfited, and dumb, 

Wrapped in his roquelaure, — 

To wealth and power he bade adieu- 
Affairs were looking Prussic blue : 
In emblematic tatters flew 

The glorious tricolor. 

What once had seemed fixed as a rock 
Had now received a fatal shock, 
And he himself had got a knock 

From a Cossack on the head. 

Gone was his hat, lost was his hope ; 
The hand, that once had smote the Pope, 
Ilad even dropped its telescope 
In the hurry as he fled. 

Old Blucher's corps a capture made 
Of his mantle, sabre, and cockade ; 
Which in " Rag Fair" would, " from the trade," 
No doubt a trifle fetch. 

But though the Prussians ('tis confessed) 
Of all his wardrobe got the best 
(Besides the military chest), 

Himself they could not catch. 

He's gone somewhere beyond the seas, 
To expiate his rogueries : 
King Louis in the Tuileries 

Has recommenced to reign. 

Gladness pervades the allied camps, 
And naught the public triumph damps; 
But every house is lit with lamps, 
E'en in each broken pane. 



Paris is one vast scene of joy ; 
And all her citizens employ 



Their throats in shouting Vive le roi! 
Amid the roar of cannon. 

Oh ! when they saw the " blanc drapeau " 
Once more displayed, they shouted so 
You could have heard them from the Po, 
Or from the banks of Shannon. 

Gadzooks ! it was, upon my fay, 
An European holiday ; 
And the land laughed, and all were gay, 
Except the sans culottes. 

You'd see the people playing cards, 
And gay grisettes and dragoon guards 
Dancing along the boulevards — 
Of brandy there were lots. 

Now, Bonaparte and Murat, 
My worthy heroes ! after that, 
I'd like to know what you'll be at — 
I think you must feel nervous. 

Perhaps you are not so besotted 
As to be cutting the "carotid"" — 
But there's the horsepond ! — there, odd rot it ! 
From such an end preserve us ! 



THE WINE-CUP BESPOKEN. 

FROM THE ITALIAN OF CLAUDIO TOLOMEL 
Ale—" One bumper at parting." 

Great Vulcan ! your dark smoky palace, 

With these ingots of silver, I seek ; 
And I beg you will make me a chalice, 

Like the cup you once forged for the Greek 
Let no deeds of Belloua "the bloody " 

Emblazon this goblet of mine ; 
But a garland of grapes, ripe and ruddy, , 

In sculpture around it entwine. 

The festoon (which you'll gracefully model) 

Is, remember, but part of the whole; 
Lest, perchance, it might enter your noddle 

To diminish the size of the bowl. 
For though dearly what's deemed ornamental, 

And of art the bright symbols, I prize; 
Still I cling with a fondness parental 

Round a cup of the true good old size. 



274 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



Let me have neither sun, moon, nor planet, 

Nor " the Bear," nor "the Twins," nor " the 
Goat :" 
Vet its use to each eye that may scan it, 

Let a glance at its emblems denote. 
Then away with Minerva and Venus! 

Not a rush for them both do I care ; 
But let jolly old Father Silenus, 

Astride on his jackass, be there ! 

Let a dance of gay satyrs, in cadence 

Disporting, be seen 'mid the fruit; 
And let Pan to a group of young maidens 

Teach a new vintage-lay on his flute; 
Cupid, too, hand in hand with Bathyllua, 

May purple his feet in the foam : 
Long may last the red joys they distil us! 

Though Love spread his winglets to roam! 



VILLAGE SONG. 



Husbands, they tell me, gold hath won 

More than aught else beside: 
Gold I have noue ; can I find one 
To take me for his bride ? 
Yet who knows 
How the wind blows — 
Or who can say 
I'll not find oue to-day ? 

I can embroider, I can sew — 

A husband I could aid ; 
I have no dowry to bestow — 
Must I remain a maid? 
Yet who knows 
How the wind blows — 
Or who can say 
I'll not find one to-day? 

A simple maid I've been too long — 

A husband I would find ; 
But then to ask— no ! — that were wrong; 
So I must be resigned. 
Yet who knows 
How the wind blows — 
Or who can say 
I'll not find one to-day t 



THE VISION OF PETRAROA. 

A form I saw with secret awe — nor ken I what 

it warns ; 
Pure as the snow, a gentle dw it seemed with 

silver horns. 
Erect she stood, close by a wood between two 

runniug streams; 
And brightly shone the morning sun upon that 

land of dreams. 

The pictured hind fancy designed glowing with 
love and hope ; 

Graceful she stepped, but distant kept, like the 
timid antelope; 

Playful, yet coy — with secret joy her image 
filled my soul; 

And o'er the sense soft influence of sweet obliv- 
ion stole. 

Gold I beheld and emerald on the collar that 

she wore ; 
Words too — but theirs were characters of legeu- 

dary lore : 
" Caesar's Secree &atb maDe me free; ana tbroiiflb bl» 

solemn cliavijf, 
ZantoucbeTi by men o'er bill anti alen B timnBcr bere 

at larae." 

The sun had now with radiant brow climbed his 

meridian throne, 
Yet still mine eye untiringly gazed on that lovely 

one. 
A voice was heard — quick disappeared my dream. 

The spell was broken. 
Then came distress — to the consciousness of life 

I had awoken. 



A VENETIAN BARCAROLLE. 

" Prithee, young fisherman, come over — 

Hither thy light bark bring ; 
Row to this bank, and try recover 

My treasure — 'tis a ring!" 

The fisher-boy of Como's lake 

His bonny boat soon brought her, 

And promised for her beauty's saka 
To search beneath the water. 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



275 



" I'll give thee," said the ladye fair, 
"One hundred sequins bright, 

If to my villa thou wilt bear, 
Fisher, that ring to-night." 

* A hundred sequins I'll refuse 
When I shall come at eve: 

But' there is something, if you choose, 
Lady, tnat you can give ! " 

The ring was found beneath the flood ; 

Nor need my lay record 
What was that lady's gratitude, 

What was that youth's reward. 



ODE TO THE WIG OF FATHER BOSCO- 
! VICH, 



M THE ITALIAN OF JULIUS OfiSAR CORDAKA. 

With awe I look on that peruke, 

Where Learning is a lodger, 
And think, whene'er I see that hair 
Which now you wear, some ladye fair 

Had woMi it onoe, dear Roger ! 

On empty skull most beautiful 
Appeared, no doubt, those locks, 

Once the bright graee of pretty face ; 

Now far more proud to be allowed 
To deck thy " knowledge-box." 

Condemned to pass before the glass 

Whole bom's each blessed morning, 
'Twas desperate long, with curling-tong 
And tortoise-shell, to have a belle 
Thee frizzing and adorning. 

Bright ringlets set as in a net, 

To catch us men like fishes ! 
Your every lock concealed a stock 
Of female wares — love's pensive cares, 

Vain dreams, and futile wishes! 

That chevelure has caused, I'm sure, 

Full many a lover's quarrel ; 
Then it was decked with flow«rs select 
And myrtle-sprig: but now a wio, 

'Tis circled wiibk * ilamrel J 



Where fresh and new at first they grev 

Of whims, and tricks, and fancies, 
Those locks at best were but a nest: — 
Their being spread on learned head 
Vastly their worth enhances 



From flowers exempt, uncouth 

Matted, entangled, thick ! 
Mourn not the loss of curl or gloss 
'Tis infra dig. Thou art the wig 
Op Roger Boscovich ! 



THE INTRUDER. 

FROM THE ITALIAN OF MENZINI. 

There's a goat in the vineyard ! an unbidden 
guest — 

He comes here to devour and to trample; 
If he keep not aloof, I must make, I protest, 

Of the trespassing rogue an example. 
Let this stone, which I fling at his ignorant head, 

Deep impressed in his skull leave its moral — 
That a four-footed beast 'mid the vines should 
not tread, 

Nor attempt with great Bacchus to quarrel. 

Should the god on his car, to which tigers are 
yoked, 
Chance to pass and espy such a scandal, 
Quick he'd mark his displeasure — most justly 
provoked 
At the sight of this four-footed Vandal. 
To encounter his wrath, or be found on his path, 

In the spring when his godship is sober, 
Silly goat ! would be rash — and you fear not the 
lash 
Of the god in the month of October. 

In each bunch, thus profaned by an insolent 
tooth, 

There has perished a goblet of nectar ; 
Fitting vengeance will follow those gambols 
uncouth, 

For the grape has a jealous protector. 
On the altar of Bacchus a victim must bleed, 

To avert a more serious disaster ; 
Lest the ire of the deity visit the deed 

Of the goat on his negligent master. 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY 



A SERENADE. 



DT VITTOBBLLI. 



Pale to-night is the disk of the moon, and of 
azure unmixed 
Is the bonny blue Bky it lies on ; 
And silent the stream-let, and hushed is the 
zephyr, and fixed 
Is each star in the calm horizon ; 
And the hamlet is lulled to repose, and all na- 
ture is still — 
How soft, how mild her slumbers! 
And naught but the nightingale's note is awake, 
and the thrill 
Of his sweetly plaintive numbers. 

His song wakes an echo ! it comes from the 
neighboring grove — 
Love's sweet responsive anthem ! 
Lady ! list to the vocalist ! Dost thou not envy 
his love, 
And the joys his mate will grant him ? 
Oh, smile on thy lover to-night! let a transient 
hope 
Ease the heart with sorrow laden : 
From yon balcony wave the fond signal a mo- 
ment — and ope 
Thy casement, fairest maiden. 



THE REPENTANCE OF PETRARCA. 

Bright days of sunny youth, irrevocable years, 

Period of manhood's prime ! 
O'er thee I shed sad but unprofitable tears — 

Lapse of returnless time. 
Oh I I have cast away, like so much worthless 
dross, 

Hours of most precious ore — 
Blessed hours I could have coined for heaven, 
your loss 

Forever I'll deplore ! 

Contrite I kneel, God inscrutable, to thee, 

High heaven's immortal King! 
Thou gavest me a soul that to thy bosom free 

Might soar on seraph wing : 
My mind with gifts and grace thy bounty had 
endowed 



To cherish Thee alone — 
Those gifts I have abused, this heart I have 
allowed 
Its Maker to disown. 

But from his wanderings reclaimed, with fulL, 
with throbbing heart 
Thy truant has returned : 
Oh ! be the idol and the hour that led him to 
depart 
From Thee, forever mourned. 
If I have dwelt remote, if I have loved the tents 
of guilt — 
To thy fond arms restored, 
Here let me die! On whom can my eternal 
hopes be built, 
Save upon Thee, O Lord ! 



(Dbes of Horace. 

Horace, in one small volume, shows ns what it U 
To blend together every kind of talent; — 

TIs a bazaar for all sorts of commodities, 
To suit the grave, tb* sad, the brave, the gallant : 

He deals in songs and •• sermons," whims and odditiea 
By turns is philosophic and pot-valiant. 

And not unfrequently with sarcasm slaughters 

The vulgar insolence of coxcomb authors. 

Ode I. — To Mec>«nas. 

" Mecsnas 1 atavis edits regibus," etc. 

Mr friend and patron, in whose veins runneth 

right royal blood, 
Give but to some the hippodrome, the car, the 

prancing stud, 
Clouds of Olympic dust — then mark what ecstasy 

of soul 
Their bosom feels, as the rapt wheels glowing 

have grazed the goal. 
Talk not to them of diadem or sceptre, save the 

whip — 
A branch of palm can raise them to the gods' 

companionship. 

And there be some, my friend, for whom the 
crowd's applause is food, 

Who pine without the hollow shout of Rome's 
mad multitude ; 

Others, whose giant greediness whole provinces 
would drain — 

Their sole pursuit to gorge and glut huge gran- 
aries with grain. 



TOEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



Yon homely hind, calmly resigned his narrow 

farm to plod, 
Seek not with Asia's wealth to wean from his 

paternal sod : 
f e can't prevail ! no varnished tale that simple 

swain will urge, 
In galley built of Cyprus oak, to plough th' 

Egean surge. 

Your merchant-mariner, who sighs for fields and 

quiet home, 
While o'er the main the hurricane howls round 

his path of foam, 
Will make, I trow, full many a vow, the deep 

for aye t' eschew. 
He lands — what then? Pelf prompts again — 

his ship 's afloat anew ! 

Sufi Leisure hath its votaries, whose bliss it is to 

baik 
In summer's ray the live-long day, quaffing a 

mellow flask 
Under the green-wood tree, or where, but newly 

born as yet, 
Religion guards the cradle of the infant rivulet. 

Some love the camp, the horseman's tramp, the 

clarion's voice ; aghast 
Pale mothers hear the trumpeter, and loathe the 

murderous blast. 

Lo ! under wintry skies his game the Hunter 

still pursues; 
And, while his bonny bride with tears her lonely 

bed bedews, 
He for his antlered foe looks out, or tracks the 

forest whence 
Broke the wild boar, whose daring tusk levelled 

the fragile fence. 

Thee the pursuits of learning claim — a claim the 

gods allow ; 
Thine is the ivy coronal that decks the scholar's 

brow : 

Me in the woods' deep solitudes the Nymphs a 

client count, 
The dancing Faun on the green lawn, the Naiad 

of the fount. 
For me her lute (sweet attribute !) let Polyhym- 

sia sweep ; 



For me, oh ! let the flageolet breathe from Eu 

terpe's lip ; 
Give but to me of poesy the lyric wreath, and 

then 
Th' immortal halls of bliss won't hold a prouder 

denizen. 



Ode II. 

"Jam satla terris nivls atque dir» Grandinis," eta. 

Since Jove decreed in storms to vent 
The winter of his discontent, 
Thundering o'er Rome impenitent 

With red right hand, 
The flood-gates of the firmament, 

Have drenched the land ! 

Terror hath seized the minds of men, 
Who deemed the days had come again 
When Proteus led, up mount and glen, 

And verdant lawn, 
Of teeming ocean's darksome den 

The monstrous spawn. 

When Pyrrha. saw the ringdove's nest 
Harbor a strange unbidden guest, 
And, by the deluge dispossessed 

Of glade and grove 
Deers down the tide, with antlered crest, 

Affrighted drove. 

We saw the yellow Tiber, sped 
Back to his Tuscan fountain-head, 
O'erwhelm the sacred and the dead 

In one fell doom, 
And Vesta's pile in ruins spread, 

And Numa's tomb. 

Dreaming of days that once had been, 
He deemed that wild disastrous scene 
Might soothe his Illa, injured queen! 

And comfort give her, 
Reckless though Jove should intervene, 

Uxorious river ! 

Our sons will ask, why men of Rome 
Drew against kindred, friends, and home 
Swords that a Persian hecatomb 
Might best imbue — 



278 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



Sons, by their fathers' feuds become 
Feeble and few ! 

Whom can our country call in aid ! 
Where must the patriot's vow be paid ? 
With orisons shall vestal maid 

Fatigue the skies ? 
Or will not Vesta's frown upbraid 

Her votaries ? 

Augur Apollo ! shall we kneel 
To thee, and for our commonweal 
With humbled consciousness appeal? 

Oh, quell the storm ! 
Come, though a silver vapor veil 

Thy radiant form ! 

Will Venus from Mount Eryx stoop, 
And to our succor hie, with troop 
Of laughing Graces, and a group 

Of Cupids round her ? 
Or comest thou with wild war-whoop, 

Dread Mars ! our founder ? 

Whose voice so long bade peace avaunt ; 
Whose war-dogs still for slaughter pant; 
The tented field thy chosen haunt, 

Thy child the Roman, 
Fierce legioner, whose visage gaunt 

Scowls on the foeman. 

Or hath young Hermes, Maia's son, 
The graceful guise and form put on 
Of thee, Augustus? and begun 

(Celestial stranger !) 
To wear the name which thou hast won— 

"Cesar's Avenger?" 

Blessed be the days of thy sojourn, 
Distant the hour when Rome shall mourn 
The fatal sight of thy return 

To Heaven again, 
Forced by a guilty age to spurn 

The haunts of men. 

Rathei remain, beloved, adored, 
Since Rome, reliant on thy sword, 
To thee of Julius hath restored 

The rich reversion ; 
Baffle Assyria's hovering horde, 

And smite the Persian 1 



Ode T II. — To the Ship bearing Vihsil t« 
Greece. 

" 8ic te diva potene," etc. 

May Love's own planet guide thee o'er tb« 
wave! 
Brightly aloft 
Helen's star-brother's twinkling, 
And ^Eolus chain all his children, save 
A west-wind soft 
Thy liquid pathway wrinkling, 
Galley ! to whom we trust, on thy parole, 
Our Virgil — mark 
Thou bear him in thy bosom 
Safe to the land of Greece ; for half my soul, 
gallant bark ! 
Were lost if I should lose him. 

A breast of bronze full sure, and ribs of oak, 
Where his who first 
Defied the tempest-demon ; 
Dared in a fragile skiff the blast provoke, 
And boldly burst 
Forth on the deep a Seaman ! 
Whom no conflicting hurricanes could daunt, 
Nor Boreas chill, 
Nor weeping Hyads sadden, 
E'en on yon gulf, whose lord, the loud Levant, 
Can calm at will, 
Or to wild frenzy madden. 

What dismal form must Death put on for hina 
Whose cold eye mocks 
The dark deep's huge indwellers ! 
Who calm athwart the billows sees the grim 
Ceraunian rocks, 
Of wail and woe tale-tellers ! — 
Though Providence poured out its ocean-flood, 
Whose broad expanse 
Might land from land dissever, 
Careeiing o'er the waters, Man withstood 
Jove's ordinance 
With impious endeavor. 

The human breast, with bold aspirings fraught, 
Throbs thus unawed, 
Untamed, and unquiescent, 
Fire from the skies a son of Japbet brought, 
And, fatal fraud ! 
Made earth a guilty present. 
Scarce was the spark snatched from the bright 
abode, 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



279 



When roiind us straight 


Buds out all florid ; — 


A ghastly phalanx thickened — 


Now let the knife devote, 


Fever and Palsy ; and grim Death, who strode 


In some still grove remote, 


With tardy gait 


A victim-lamb to Faun ; or, should he list, a 


Far off, — his coming quickened. 


goat. 


Wafted on daring art's fictitious plume, 


Death, with impartial foot, 


The Cretan rose, 


Knocks at the hut ; 


And waved his wizard pinions ; 


The lowly 


Downwards Alcides pierced the realms of gloom, 


As the most princely gate. 


Where darkly flows 


favored friend ! on life's brief date 


Styx, through the dead's dominions. 


To count were folly ; 


Naught is beyond our reach, beyond our scope, 


Soon shall, in vapors dark, 


And heaven's high laws 


Quenched be thy vital spark, 


Still fail to keep us under; 


And thou, a silent ghost, for Pluto's land em- 


How can our unreposing malice hope 


bark? 


Respite or pause 




From Jove's avenging thunder! 


Where at no gay repast, 




By dice's cast 




King chosen, 




Wine-laws shalt thou enforce, 




But weep o'er joy and love's warm sourue 


Ode IV. 


Forever frozen ; 




And tender Lydia lost, 
Of all the town the toast, 


"Solvitur acris hyems," etc. 


Kaw Winter melts beneath 


Who then, when thou art gone, will fire all 


Spring's genial breath, 


bosoms most ! 


And Zephyr 




Back to the water yields 




The stranded bark — back to the fields 




The stabled heifer — 




And the gay rural scene 


Ode V. — Pyrrha's Inconstancy. 


The shepherd's foot can wean, 


"Qnis mnlt4 gracilis te pner in rosa," eta 


Forth from his homely hearth, to tread the 




meadows green. 


Ptrrha, who now, mayhap, 




Pours on thy perfumed lap 


Now Venus loves to group 


With rosy wreath, fair youth, his fond addresses! 


Her merry troop. 


Within thy charming grot, 


Of maidens, 


For whom, in gay love-knot, 


Who, while the moon peeps out, 


Playfully dost thou bind thy yellow tresses ? 


Dance with the Graces round about 




Their queen in cadence; 


So simple in thy neatness ! 


While far, 'mid fire and noise, 


Alas ! that so much sweetness 


Vulcan his forge employs, 


Should prelude prove to disillusion painful! 


Where Cyclops grim aloft their ponderous sledges 


He shall bewail too late 


■ poise. 


His sadly altered fate, 




Chilled by thy mien, lepellant and disdainful. 


Now maids, with myrtle-bough, 




Garland their brow — 


Who now, to fondness prone, 


Each forehead 


Deeming thee all his own, 


Shining with flow'rets decked ; 


Revels in golden dreams of favors boundless ; 


While the glad earth, by frost unchecked, 


So bright thy beauty glows, 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONV. 



Still fascinating those 
Who've yet to learn all trust in thee is ground- 



I the false light forswear, 

A shipwrecked mariner, 
Who hangs the painted story of his suffering 

Aloft o'er Neptune's shrine; 

There shall I hang up mine, 
And of my dripping robes the votive offering 1 



Ode VI. 

Varlo," etc 



Aorippa 1 seek a loftier bard ; nor ask 

Horace to twine in songs 
The double wreath, due to a victor's casque 
From land and ocean : such Homeric task 

To Varius belongs. 

Our lowly lyre no fitting music hath, 

And in despair dismisses 
The epic splendors of "Achilles' wrath," 
Or the " dread line of Pelops," or the "path 

Of billow-borne Ulysses." 

The record of the deeds at Actium wrought 
So far transcends our talent — 

Vain were the wish ! wild the presumptuous 
thought! 

To sing how Caesar, how Agrippa, fought — 
Both foremost 'mid the gallant ! 

The God of War in adamantine mail; 

Merlon, gaunt and grim ; 
.Pallas in aid ; while Troy's battalions quail, 
.Scared by the lance of Dioraed . . . must fail 

To figure in our hymn. 

Ours is the banquet-song's light-hearted strain, 

Roses our only laurel, 
The progress of a love-suit our campaign, 
Our only scars the gashes that remain 

When romping lovers quarrel. 



Ode VII. — To Munatius Plancub. 

"Landabunt alii claram Rbodoa** 

Rhodes, Ephesus, or Mitylene, 

Or Thessaly's fair valley, 
Or Corinth, placed two gulfs atween, 
Delphi, or Thebes, suggest the scene 

Where some would choose to dally ; 
Others in praise of Athens launch, 

And poets lyric 
Grace, with Minerva's olive branch 
Their panegyric. 

To Juno's city some would roam — 

Argos — of steeds productive; 
In rich Mycenae make their home, 
Or find Larissa pleasantsome, 
Or Sparta deem seductive ; 
Me Tibur's grove charms more than all 

The brook's bright bosom, 
And o'er loud Auio's waterfall 
Fruit-trees in blossom. 

Plancus! do blasts forever sweep 
Athwart the welkin rancored ? 
Friend 1 do the clouds forever weep f— 
Then cheer thee, and thy sorrows deep 

Drown in a flowing tankard : 
Whether " the camp ! the field ! the sword 1* 

Be still thy motto, 

Or Tibur to thy choice afford 

A sheltered grotto. 

When Teucer from his father's frown 
t For exile 'parted, 
Wreathing his brow with poplar crown, 
In wine he bade his comrades drown 

Their woes light-hearted ; 
And thus he cried, Whate'er betide, 

Hope shall not leave me: 
The home a father hath denied 
Let Fortune give me! 

Who doubts or dreads if Teucer lead! 

Hath not Apollo 
A new-found Sulumis decreed,' 
Old Fatherland shall supersede? 

Then fearless follow. 
Ye who could bear ten years your share 

Of toil and slaughter, 
Drink ! for our sail to-morrow's gale 
Wafts o'er the water. 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



Ode VIII. 

"Lydia, die per omnes ," etc 

Enchanting Lydia! prithee, 

By all the gods that, see thee, 
Pray tell me this Must Sybaris 

Perish, enamored with thee? 

Lo ! wrapped as in a trance, he 

Whose hardy youth could fancy 
Each manly feat, dreads dust and heat, 

All through thy necromancy ! 

Why rides he never, tell us, 

Accoutred like his fellows, 
For curb and whip, and horsemanship, 

And martial bearing zealous? 
. Why hangs he back, demurrent 

To breast the Tiber's current, 
From wrestlers' oil, as from the coil 

Of poisonous snake, abhorreut ? 

No more with iron rigor 

Rude armor-marks disfigure 
His pliant limbs, but languor dims 

His eye and wastes his vigor. 

Gone is the youth's ambition 

To give the lance emission, 
Or hurl adroit the circling quoit 

II gallant competition. 

And his embowered retreat is 

Like where the Son of Thetis 
Lurked undivnlged, while he indulged 

A mother's soft entreaties, 

Robed as a Grecian girl, 

Lest soldier-like apparel 
Might raise a flame, and his kindling frame 

Through the ranks of slaughter whirl. 



Ode IX. 



See how the winter blanches 

Soracte's giant brow ! 
Hear how the forest-branches 

Groat, for the weight of snow ! 
While the fixed ice impanels 
Rivers within their channels. 



Out with the frost! expel herl 

Pile up the fael-block. 
And from thy hoary cellar 

Produce a Sabine crock : 
O Thaliarck ! remember 
It count a fourth December. 

Give to the gods the guidance 
Of earth's arrangements. List! 

The blasts at their high biddance 
From the vexed deep desist, 

Nor 'mid the cypress riot ; 

And the old elms are quiet. 

Enjoy, without foreboding, 
Life as the moments run ; 

Away with Care corroding, 
Youth of my soul ! nor shun 

Love, for whose smile thou'rt suited ; 

And 'mid the dancers foot it. 

While youth's hour lasts, beguile it ; 

Follow the field, the camp, 
Each manly sport, till twilight 

Brings on the vesper-lamp; 
Then let thy loved one lisp her 
Fond feelings in a whisper. 

Or in a nook hide furtive, 
Till by her laugh betrayed, 

And drawn, with struggle sportive, 
Forth from her ambuscade ; 

Bracelet or ring th' offender 

In forfeit sweet surrender ! 



Ode X. — Hymn to Mercury. 

"Mercurl facundo Nepos Atlantis," etc 

Persuasive Hermes! Afric's son ! 
Who — sc;trce had human life begun- 
Amid our rude forefathers shone 

With arts instructive, 
And man to new refinement won 

With grace seductive. 

Herald of Jove, and of his court, 

The lyre's inventor and support, 

Genius ! that can at will resort 

To glorious cunning; 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAIIONY. 



Both gods and men in furtive sport 
And wit outrunning! 

You, when a child the woods amid, 
Apollo's kine drew off and hid ; 
And when the god with menace bid 

The spoil deliver, 
Forced him to smile — for, while he chid. 

You stole his quiver ! 

The night old Priam sorrowing weDt, 
With gold through many a Grecian tent, 
And many a foeman's watchfire, bent 

To ransom Hector, 
In you he found a provident 

Guide and protector. 

Where bloom Elysium's groves beyond 
Death's portals and the Stygian pond, 
Yon guide the ghosts with golden wand, 

Whose special charm is 
That Jove and Pluto both are fond 

Alike of Hermes ! 



Ode XI. — Ad Leuconobn. 

"Tu ne qusesieris," etc 

Love, mine ! seek not to grope 
Through the dark windings of Chaldean witchery, 

To learn your horoscope, 
Or mine, from vile adepts in fraud aud treachery, 
My Leuconoe ! shun 
Those sons of Babylon. 

Far better 'twere to wait, 
Calmly resigned, the destined hour's maturity, 

Whether our life's brief date 
This winter close, or, through a long futurity, 
For us the sea still roar 
Oo yon Tyrrenean shore. 

Let Wisdom fill the cup ; — 
Vain hopes of lengthened days and years felici- 
tous 
Folly may treasure up ; 
Onrs be the day that passeth — unsolicitous 
Of what the next may bring. 
Time flieth as we sing! 



Ode XII. — A Pkayer for Augustus. 

" Qaem vlrom »ot taeros.'' 
An— "Sultime wat the warniTig." 

Name Clio, the man! or the god — for whose 

sake 
The lyre, or the clarion, loud echoes shall wake 

On thy favorite hill, or in Helicon's grove* 
Whence forests have followed the wizard of Thrace, 
When rivers enraptured suspended their race, 
When the ears were vouchsafed to the obdurate 

oak. 
And the blasts of mount Haemus bowed down to 

the yoke 
Of the magical minestrel, grandson of Jove. 

First to Him raise the song ! whose parental cou- 

trol 
Men and gods feel alike ; whom the waves, as 

they roll — 
Whom the earth, and the stars, and the seasons 

obey, 
Unapproached in his godhead ; majestic alone, 
Though Fallas may stand on the steps of hi» 

throne, 
Though huntress Diana may challenge a shrine, 
And worship be due to the god of the vine. 
And to archer Apollo, bright giver of day. 

Shall we next sing Alcides ? or Leda's twin- 
lights — 

Him the Horseman, or him whom the Cestus 
delights ? 
Both shining aloft, by the seaman adored ; 

(For he kens that their risiug the clouds car. 
dispel, 

Dash the foam from the rock, and the hurricane 
quell.) — 

Of Romulus next shall the claim be allowed ? 

Of Numa the peaceful ? of Tarquiu the proud ? 
Of Cato, whose fall hath ennobled his sword ? 

Shall Scaurus, shall Regulus fruitlessly crave 
Honour due ? shall the Consul, who prodigal gave 

His life-blood on Cannae's disastrous plain? 
Camillus? or he whom a king could not tempt! 
Stern Poverty's children, unfashioned, uukempt. 
The fame of Marcellus grows j'et in the shade, 
But the meteor of Julius beams over his head, 

Like the moon that outshines all the stars in 
her train I 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



Great Deity; guardian of men ! unto whom 
We commend, in Augustus, the fortunes of Rome, 

Reign for ever! but guard his subordinate 
throne. 
Be it his — of the Parthian each inroad to check ; 
Of the Indian, in triumph, to trample the neck; 
To rule all the nations of earth ; — be it Jove's 
To exterminate guilt from the god's hallowed 
groves, 

Be the bolt and the chariot of thunder thine 



Ode XIII. — The Poet's Jealousy. 



Ltdia, when you tauntingly 
Talk of Telephus, praising him 

For his beauty, vauntingly 
Far beyond me raising him, 
His rosy neck, and arms of alabaster, 
My rage I scarce can master ! 

Pale and faint with dizziness, 

All my features presently 
Paint my soul's uneasiness; 
Tears, big tears, incessantly 
Stea. down my cheeks, and tell in what fierce 
fashion 
My bosom burns with 



'Sdeath ! to trace the evidence 

Of your gay deceitfulness, 
Mid the cup's improvidence, 
'Mid the feast's forgetfulness, 
To trace, where lips and ivory shoulders pay 
for it, 
The kiss of your young favorite ! 

Deem not vainly credulous, 
Such wild transports durable, 

Or that fond and sedulous 
Love is thus procurable : 
Though Venus drench the kiss with her quint- 



Its nectar Time soon lessens. 

Eut where meet (thrice fortunate !) 

Kindred hearts and suitable, 
Strife comes ne'er importunate, 
'Love remains immutable ; ■'■•' 
On to the close they glide, 'mid scenes Elysian, 
Through life's delightful vision 1 



Ode XIV. — To the Vessel of the State.- 
An Allegory. 
ad eimpublioam. 

What fresh perdition urges, 
Galley ! thy darksome track, 

Once more upon the surges ? 
Hie to the haven back ! 

Doth not the lightning show thee 

Thou hast got none to row thee } 

Is not thy mainmast shattered ? 

Hath not the boisterous south 
Thy yards and rigging scattered? 

In dishabille uncouth, 
How canst thou hope to weather 
The storms that round thee gather f 

Rent are the sails that decked thee ; 

Deaf are thy gods become, 
Though summoned to protect thee, 

Though sued to save thee from 
The fate thou most abhorrest, 
Proud daughter of tlie forest ! 

Thy vanity would vaunt us, 

Yon richly pictured poop 
Pine-timbers from the Pontus ; 

Fear lest, in one foil swoop, 
Paint, pride, and pine-trees hollow, 
The scoffing whirlpool swallow ! 

I've watched thee, sad and pensive, 

Source of my recent cares ! 
Oh, wisely apprehensive, 

Venture not unawares 
Where Greece spreads out her seas, 
Begemmed with Cyclades! 






Ode XV. — The Sea-God's Warning to Paris. 

" Pastor cum traheret," eta 

As the Shepherd of Troy, wafting over the deep 
Sad Perfidy's freightage, bore Helen along, 

Old Nerens uprose, hushed the breezes to sleep, 
And the secrets of doom thus revealed in hi* 
song. 

Ah ! homeward thou bringest, with omen of 
dread, 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



One whom Greece will reclaim ! — for her 
millions have sworn 
Not to rest till they tear the false bride from 
thy bed, 

Or till Priam's old throne their revenge over- 
turn. 

See the struggle! how foam covers horsemen 
and steeds ! 
See thy Ilion consigned to the bloodiest of 
sieges ! 
Mark, arrayed in her helmet, Minerva, who 
speeds 
To prepare for the battle her car and her 
aegis! 

Too fondly thou deemest that Venus will vouch 
For a life which thou spendest in trimming 
thy curls, 

Or, in tuning 1 , reclined on an indolent couch, 
An effeminate lyre to an audience of girls. 

Though awhile in voluptuous pastime employed, 
Far away from the contest, the truant of lust 

Hay baffle the bowman, and Ajax avoid, 
Th) adulterous ringlets are doomed to the 
dust* 

jee'st thou him of Ithica, scourge of thy race? 

Gallant Teucer of Salarnis? Nestor the wise? 
F.ow, urging his car on thy cowardly trace, 

Swift Sihenelus poises his lance as he flies? 

Swift. Sthenelus, Diomed's brave charioteer, 
Accomplished in combat like Merion the 
Cretan, 

Fierce, toweling aloft see bis master appear, 
Of a breed that in battle has never been beaten. 

Whom thou, like a fawn, when a wolf in the 
valley 
The delicate pasture compels him to leave, 
Wilt fly, faint and breathless — though flight 
may not tally 
With all thy beloved heard thee boast to 4 
achieve. 

Achilles, retire ■) in his angry pavilion, 

Shall cause a short respite to Troy and her 
games ; 

Yet a few winters more, and the turrets of Ilion 
Must sink 'mid the roar o' retributive flames I 



Ode XVI. — The Satirist's Recantation. 



Blessed with a charming mother, yet, 
Thou still more fascinating daughter! 

Prythee rny vile lampoons forget — 

Give to the flames the libel — let 
The satire sink in Adria's water ! 

Not Cybele's most solemn rites, 

Cymbals of brass and spells of magic ; 

Apollo's priest, 'mid Delphic flights; 

Or Bacchanal, 'mid fierce delights, 
Presents a scene more tragic 

Than Anger, when it rules the soul. 

Nor fire nor sword can then surmount her 
Nor the vexed elements control, 
Though Jove himself, from pole to pole, 

Thundering rush down to the encounter. 

Prometheus — forced to graft, of old, 

Upon our stock a foreign scion, 
Mixed up — if we be truly told — 
With some brute particles, our mould — 
Anger he gathered from the lion. 

Anger destroyed Thyestes' race, 

O'erwhelmed his house in ruin thorough, 
And many a lofty city's trace 
Caused a proud foeman to efface, 

Ploughing the site with hostile furrow. 

Oh, be appeased ! 'twas rage, in sooth, 

First woke my song's satiric tenor; 
In wild and unreflecting youth, 
Anger inspired the deed uncouth ; 
But, pardon that foul misdemeanor. 

Lady ! I swear — my recreant lays 

Henceforth to rectify and alter — 
To change my tones from blame to praise, 
Should your rekindling friendship raise 
The spirits of a sad defaultei ! 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



Ode XVII. — An Invitation to Horace's 


Ode XVIII. 


Villa 


u Wullam, Vare, sacri vlte prias severls arborem," etc 


AD TTODARIDEU. 






Since at Tivoli, Varus, you've fixed upon planting 


Oft for the hill where ranges 


Round your villa enchantiug, 


My Sabine flock, 


Of all trees, my frieud ! let the Vine be the 


Swift-footed Faun exchanges 


first. 


Arcadia's rock, 


On no other condition will Jove lend assistance 


And, tempering summer's ray, forbids 


To keep at a distance 


Untoward rain to harm my kids. 


Chagrin, aud the cares that accompany thirst. 


And there in happy vagrance, 


No one talks after wine about "battles" or 


Roams the she-goat, 


"famine;" 


Lured by marital fragrance, 


But, if you examine, 


Through dells remote ; 


The praises of love and good living are rife. 


Of each wild herb and shrub partakes, 


Though once the Centaurs, 'mid potations toe 


Nor fears the coil of lurking snakes. 


•■ ample, 




Left a tragic example 


No prowling wolves alarm her; 


Of a banquet dishonored by bloodshed and strife, 


Safe from their gripe 




While Faun, immortal charmer! 


Far removed be such doings from us ! Let the 


Attunes his pipe, 


Thracians, 


ind down the vale and o'er the hills 


Amid their libations, 


tfstica'e every echo tills. 


Confound all the limite of right and of wrong; 




I never will join in their orgies unholy — 


The Gods, their bard caressing, 


I never will sully 


With kinduess treat: 


The rites that to ivy-crowned Bacchus belong. 


They've filled my house with blessing — 




My country-seat, 


Let Cybele silence her priesthood, and calm her 


Where Plenty voids her loaded horn, 


Brass cymbals and clamor ; 


?air Tyndaris, pray come adorn ! 


Away with such outbursts, uproarious and vain ! 




Displays often followed by Insolence mulish, 


From Sirius in the zenith, 


And Confidence foolish, 


From summer's glare, 


To be seen through and through, like this glass 


Come, where the valley screeneth, 


that I drain. 


Gome, warble there 


, 


Songs of the hero, for whose love 




Penelope aud Circe strove. 

Nor shall the cup be wanting, 






So harmless then, 




To grace that hour enchanting 


Ode XIX.— De Glycera. 


In shady glen. 


41 Mater Saeva Oupidinum," etc. 


Nor shall the juice our calm disturb ! 




Nor aught our sweet emotions curb ! 


Love's unrelenting Queen, 




With Bacchus — Theban maid! thy wayward 


Fear not, my fair one ! Cyrus 


child 


Shall not intrude, 


Whene'er I try to* wean, 


Nor worry thee desirous 


My heart, from vain amours and follies wild, 


Of solitude, 


Is sure to intervene, 


Nor rend thy innocent robe, nor tear 


Kindling within my breast some passion unfor- 


The garland from thy flowing hair. 


seen. 



2SG 



POEMS OF FRANOIS MAHONY. 



Glyceric dazzling glance, 
That with voluptuous light ray vision dims — 

The graces that enhance 
The Parian marble of her snow-white limbs, 

Have left my heart no chance 
Against her winning wiles and playful petulance. 

Say not that Venus dwells 
In distant Cyprus, for she fills my breast, 

And from that shrine expels 
All other themes: ray lyre, by love possessed, 
No more with war-notes swells, 
Nor sings of Parthian shaft, nor scythian slaugh- 
ter tells. 

Come hither, slaves! and pile 
An altar of green turf, and incense burn ; 
Strew magic vervain, while 
| I pour libations from a golden urn : 
' These rites may reconcile 

The goddess of fierce love, who yet may deign 
to smile. 



Ode XX. — " Pot-luck " with Horace. 



Since thou, Maecenas, nothing loath, 

Under the bard's roof-tree, 
Canst drink rough wine of Sabine growth, 

Here stands a jar for thee ! — 
The Grecian delf I sealed myself, 

That year the theatre broke forth, 

In tribute to thy sterling worth, 

When Rome's glad shout the welkin rent, 

Along the Tiber ran, 
And rose again, by Echo sent, 

Back from Mount Vatican ; — 
When with delight, Roman Knight ! 

Etruria heard her oldest flood 

Do homage to her noblest blood. 

Wines of Falernian vintage, friend, 

Thy princely cellar stock; 
Bethink thee, should'st thou condescend 

To share a poet's crock, 
Its modest shape, Cajeta's grape 

Hath never tinged, nor Formia's hill 

Deigned with a purple flood to fill. 



Ode XXI. — To the Rising Generation or 
Rome. 

AD FVBXM BOMAKAlt 

Worship Diana, young daughters of Italy ! 

Youths! sing i. polio — both children of Jove: 
Honor Latona, their mother, who mightily 

Triumphed o£ old in the Thunderer's love. 

Maids ! sing the Huntress, whose haunts are the 
highlands, 
Who treads, in a buskin of silvery sheen, 
Each forest-crowned summit through Greece and 
her highlands, 
From dark Erymanthus to Cragus the green. 

From Tempe's fair valley, by Phosbus frequented, 
To Delos his birthplace — the light quiver hung 
From his shoulders — the lyre that his brother in- 
vented — 
Be each shrine by our jouth and each attn 
bute sung. 

May your prayers to the regions of light fiud ad- 
mittance 
On Caesar's behalf; — and the Deity urge 
To drive from our land to the Persians and 
Briton3, 
Of Famine the curse ! of Bellona the scourge 1 



Ode XXII. 

AD ABIBTTOM FDBODK. 



Aristius ! if thou canst secure 

A conscience calm, with morals pure, 

Look upwards for defence ! abjure 

All meaner craft — 
The bow and quiver of the Moor, 

And poisoned shaft. 

What though thy perilous path lie traced 
O'er burning Aftic's boundless waste. . . . 
Of rugged Caucasus the guest, 

Or doom'd to travel 
Where fabulous rivers of the East 
Their course unravel !. . . . 

Under my Sabine woodland shade, 
Musing upon ray Grecian maid, , 

Unconsciously of late I strayed / 

Through glen and meadow, % 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



When, lo! a ravenous wolf, afraid, 
Fled from my shadow. 

No monster of such magnitude 
Lurks in the depth of Daunia's wood, 
Or roams through Lybia unsubdued 

The' land to curse — 
Land of a fearful lion-brood 

The withered nurse. 

Waft me away to deserts wild, 
Where vegetation never smiled, 
Where sunshine never once beguiled 

The dreary day, 
But winters upon winters piled 

For aye delay. 

Place me beneath the torrid zone, 
Where man to dwell was never known, 
I'd cherish still one thought alone, 

Maid of my choice ! 
The smile of thy sweet lip — the tone 

Of thy sweet voice ! 



Ode XXIV. — To Virgil. — A Consolatory 
Address. 



Ode XXIII. — A Remonstrance to Chlob the 
Bashful. 

" Vitas hinnuleo," etc 

Why wilt thou, Chloe, fly me thus? 

The yearling kid 
Is not more shy and timorous, 
Our woods amid, 
Seeking her dam o'er glen and hill, 
While all her frame vain terrors thrill. 

Should a green lizard chance to stir 
} Beneath the bush — 

Should Zephyr through the mountain-fir 

• Disporting gush — 
With suddeu flight behold her start, 
With trembling knees and throbbing heart. 

And canst thou think me, maiden fair ! 

A tiger grim ? 
A Lybian lion, bent to tear 
Thee limb by limb ) 
Still canst thou haunt thy mother's shade, 
Ripe for a husband, blooming maid f 



Why check the full outburst of sorrow ? Why 
blush 
To weep for the friend we adored! 
Raise the voice of lament ! let the swollen tear 

gush! 
Bemoan thee, Melpomene, loudly ! nor hush 
The sound of thy lute's liquid chord ! 

For low lies Quinctilius, tranced in that sleep 

That issue hath none, nor sequel. 
Let Candor, with all her white sisterhood, weep — 
Truth, Meekness, and Justice, his memory keep — 

For when shall they find his equal ? ' 

Though the wise and the good may bewail him, 
yet none 
O'er his clay sheds the tear more truly 
Than you, beloved Virgil! You deemed him 

your own : 
You mourn his companionship. — 'Twas but a 
loan, 
Which the gods have withdrawn unduly. 

Yet not though Eurydice's lover had left 

Thee a legacy, friend, of his song ! 
Couldst thou warm the cold image of life-blnod 

bereft, 
Or force death, who robbed thee, to render the 
theft, 
Or bring back his shade from the throng, 

Which Mercury guides with imperative wand, 

To the banks of the fatal terry. — 
'Tis hard to endure ; — but 'tis wrong to despond : 
For patience may deaden the blow, though be- 
yond 

Thy power, my friend, to parry. 



Ode XXVI. — Friendship and Poetry the 

best Antidotes to Sorrow. 

musis amicus.— ahso ab u. o. mdooixx. 

Am— " Fill the bumper fair." 

Sadness — I who live 
Devoted to the Muse*. 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MA1IONY. 



To the wild wind give, 


What ! silent thus ? Dost fear to name aloud 


To waft wht To'er it chooses ; 


The girl of thy affection ? 


Deigning not to care 


Youth! let thy choice be candidly avowed; 


What savage chief be chosen 


Thou hast a delicate taste, and art allowed 


To reign beneath " the Bear," 


Some talent lor selection. 


O'er the fields forever frozen. 


Yet, if the loud confession thou wilt shun, 




To my safe ear discover 


Let Tiridates rue 


Thy cherished secret. . . . Ah, thou art undone ! 


The march of Roman legions, 


What! she? How little such a heartless one 


While I my path pursue 


Deserves so fond a lover ! 


Through poesy's calm regions — 




Bidding the Muse, who drinks 


What fiend, what Thracian witch, deaf to re- 


From the fountains unpolluted, 


morse, 


To weave with flowery links 


Hath brewed thy dire love-potion I 


A wreath, to Friendship suited, 


Scarce could the hero of the winged horse 




Effect thy rescue, or — to free thee — force 


For gentle Lamia's blow. — 


That dragon of the ocean ! 


Muse melodious ! sweetly 




Echo his praise; for thou 




Alone canst praise him fitly. 




For him thy Lesbian shell 




With strings refurnish newly, 


Ode XXIX. — The Sage turned Soldier. 


And let thy sisters swell 




The jocund chorus duly. 


ADIOCIUH. 


Sadness — I who live devoted, etc. 


Aie — " One bumper at parting" 




The trophies of war, and the plunder, 




Have fired a philosopher's breast — 






So, Iccius, you march ('mid the wonder 




Of all) for Arabia the blessed. 


Ode XXVII. — A Banquet-Scene. Toast and 


Full sure, when 'tis told to the Persian, 


Sentiment. 


That you have abandoned your home, 


AD BODALXS. 


He'll feel the full force of coercion, 




And strike to the banners of Rome 1 


To make a weapon of joy's cup, my friends, 




Is a vile Thracian custom; 


What chief shall you vanquish and fetteif 


Shame on such practices ! — they mar the ends 


What captive shall call you her lord \ 
How soon may the maiden forget her 


Of calm and kindly Bacchus. Bloodshed tends 


To sadden and disgust him. 


Betrothed, hewn down by your sword ? 




What stripling has fancy appointed, 


Here, 'mid the bowls, what business hath the 


From all that their palaces hold, 


swoid? 


To serve you with ringlets anointed, 


Come, sheathe yon Persian dagger ; 


And hand you the goblet of gold? 


Let the bright lamp shine on a quiet board; 




Recline in peace — these hours we can't afford 


His arts to your pastime contribute, 


For brawling, sound, and swagger. 


His foreign accomplishments show, 




And, taught by his parent, exhibit 


Say, shall your chairman fill his cup, and drain 


His dexterous use of the bow. — 


Of humming bowls another? 


Who doubts that the Tiber, in cholei, 


Then, first, a toast his mandate shall obtain; 


May, bursting all barriers and bars, 


He'll know the nymph whose witcheries enchain 


Flow back to its source, when a scholar 


The fair Megilla's brother 


Deserts to the standard of Mars t 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



When you, the reserved and the prudent, 

Whom Socrates hoped to engage, 
Can merge in the soldier the student, 

And mar thus an embryo sasjc — 
Bid the visions of science to vanish, 

And barter yon erudite hoard 
Of volumes from Greece for a Spanish 

Cuirass, and the pen for a sword ! 



-The Dedication of Glyoera's 
Chapel. 



Odi XXX, 



Air—" The Boyne water." 

O Venus ! Queen of Cyprus isle, 

Of Paplios and of Gnidus, 
Hie from thy favorite haunts awhile, 

And make abode amid us ; 
Glycera's altar for thee smokes, 

With fraukincense sweet-smelling — 
Thee, while the charming maid invokes, 

Hie to her lovely dwelling! 

Let yor. bright Boy, whose hand hath grasped 

Love s blazing torch, precede thee, 
While gliding on, with zone unclasped, 

The sister Graces lead thee : 
Nor be thy Nymph-attendants missed : 

Nor can it harm thy court, if 
Hebe the youthful swell thy list, 

With Mercury the sportive. 



Ode XXXI. — The Dedication op AroLLo'a 
Temple. 



Air — " Leebia hath a beaming eye.™ 

When the bard in worship, low 

Bends before his liege Apollo, 
While the red libations flow 

From the goblet's golden hollow, 
Can ye guess his orison ? 

Can it be for " grain "he asketh- 
Mellow grain, that in the sua 

0'«r Sardinia's bosom basketb ? 



No, no ! The fattest herd of kine 

That o'er Calabrian pasture ranges — 
The wealth of India's richest mine — 

The ivory of the distant Ganges ? 
No — these be not the poet's dream — 

Nor acres broad to roam at large in, 
Where lazy Liris, sileut stream, 

Slow undermines the meadow's margin. 

The landlord of a wide domain 

May gather his Campanian vintage, 
The venturous trader count his gain — 

I covet not his rich percentage ; 
When for the merchandise he sold 

He gets the balance he relied on, 
Pleased let him toast, in cups of gold, 

" Free intercourse with Tyre and Sidon I ' 

Each year upon the watery waste, 

Let him provoke the fierce Atlantic 
Four separate times — ... I have no taste 

For speculation so gigantic. 
The gods are kind, the gain superb ; 

But, haply, I can feast in quiet 
On salad of some homely herb, 

On frugal fruit and olive diet. 

On, let Latona's son but please 

To guarantee me health's enjoyment ! 
The goods he gave — the faculties 

Of which he claims the full employment; 
Let me live on to good old age, 

No deed of shame my pillow haunting, 
Calm to the last, the closing stage 

Of life : — nor let the lyre be wanting. 



Ode XXXII. — An occasional Prelude o; 
the Poet to his Songs. 

AD LTBAM. 

Air — "Dear harp of my country." 

They have called for a lay that for ages abi- 
ding, 
Bids Echo its music through years to prolong; 
Then wake, Latin lyre ! Since my country takei 
pride in 
Thy wild native harmony, wake to my song. 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



Twas Alcseus, a minstrel of Greece, who first 
married 
The tones of the voice to the thrill of the 
chord ; 
O'er the waves of the sea the loved symbol he 
carried, 
Nor relinquished the lyre though he wielded 
the sword. 

Gay Bacchus, the Muses, with Cupid he chanted 
— The boy who accompanies Venus the fair — 

And he told o'er again how for Lyca he panted, 
With her bonny black eyes and her dark 
flowing hair. 

'Tis the pride of Apollo— he glories to rank it, 
Amid his bright attributes, foremost of all : 

Tis the solace of life ! Even Jove to his banquet 
Invites thee ! — O lyre ! ever wake to my call. 



"Ode XXXIV. — The Poet's Conversion. 



I, whom the Gods had found a client, 

.Rarely with pious rites compliant, 

At Unbelief disposed to nibble, 

And pleased with every sophist quibble — 

I, who had deemed great Jove a phantom, 

Now own my errors, and recant 'em! 

Have I not lived of late to witness, 
Athwart a sky of passing brightness, 
The God, upon his car of thunder, 
Cleave the calm elements asunder! 
Arid, through the firmament careering, 
Level his bolts with aim unerring ? 

Then trembled Earth with sudden shiver; 
Then quaked with tear each mount and river; 
Stunned at the blow, Hell reeled a minute, 
With all the darksome caves within it; 
And Atlas seemed as he would totter 
Beneath his load of land and water ! 

Yes! of a God I hail the guidance ; 
The proud are humble at his biddance; 
Fortune, his handmaid, now uplifting 
Monarchs, and now the sceptre shifting, 
With equal proof his power evinces, 
Whether she raise or ruin Princes. 



Ode XXXV. — An Addkess to Fortchb. 

AD FORT UN AM. 

Fortune, whose pillared temple crowns 

Cape Antium's jutting cliff, 
Whose smiles cout'er success, whose frown* 

Can change our triumphs brief 
To funerals — for life both lie at 
The mercy of thy sovereign fiat. 

Thee, Goddess ! in his fervent prayers, 

Fondly the frugal farmer courts ; 
The mariner, before he dares 

Unmoor his bark, to thee resorts — 
That thy kind favor may continue, 
To bless his voyage to Bithynia. 

Rude Dacia's clans, wild Scythia's hordes — 
Abroad — at home — all worship thee! 

And mothers of barbarian Lords, 
And purpled tyrants, bend the knee 

Before thy shrine, Maid ! who seemest 

To rule mankind with power supremest. 

Lest thou their statue's pillared pride 
Dash to the dust with scornful foot — 

Lest Tumult, bent on regicide, 
Their ancient dynasty uproot; 

When maddened crowds, with FieDds to lead 
'em, 

Wreck empires in the name of freedom! 

Thee stern Necessity leads on, 

Loaded with attributes of awe! 
And grasping, grim automaton, 

Bronze wedges in his iron claw, 
Prepared with sledge to drive the bolt in, 
And seal it fast with lead that's molten. 

Thee Hope adores. In snow-white vest, 

Fidelity (though seldom found) 
Clings to her liege, and loves him best, 

When dangers threat and ills surround ; 
Prizing him poor, despoiled, imprisoned, 
More than with gold and gems bedizened. 

Not so the fickle crowd ! Not so 
The purchased Beauty, sure to fly 

Where all our boon companions go, 
Soon as the cask of jo,v runs dry: 

Round us the Spring and Summer brought *«»»— 

They leave us at the close of Autumn ! 



P0EMJ3 OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



THE PRAYER. 

Goddess! defend, from dole and harm, 
Caesar, who speeds to Britain's camp ! 

And waft, of Rome's glad youth, the swarm 
Safe to where first Apollo's lamp 

Shines in the East— the brave whose fate is 

To war uponnhy banks, Euphrates! 

Oh ! let our country's tears expunge 

From history's page those years abhorred, 

When Roman hands could reckless plunge, 
Deep in a brother's heart, the sword ; 

When 'Guilt stalked forth, with aspect hideous, 

With every crime and deed perfidious ; 

When Sacrilege and Frenzy urged 
To violate each hallowed fane. — 
Oh ! that our falchions were reforged, 
I And purified from sin and shame ; — 
Then — turned against th' Assyrian foeman — 
Baptized in exploits truly Roman ! 



Ode XXXVI — A Welcome to Numida. 



Ode XXXVII. — The Defeat op Cleopatra. 



A JOYFUL BALLAD 



Burn frankincense ! blow fife 
A merry note ! — and quick devote 
A victim to the knife, 

To thank the guardian powers 
Who led from Spain — home once again 
This gallant friend of ours. 

Dear to us all.; yet one 
Can fairly boast — his friendship most : 
Oh, him he doats upon ! 

The gentle Lamia, whom, 
Long used to share — each schoolday car 
He loved in boyhood's bloom. 

One day on both conferred 

The garb of men — this day, again 

Let a "white chalk" record. 

Then send the wine-jar round, 
And blithely keep — the •"Salian" step 
With many a mirthful ibound. 



Now, comrades, drink 
Full bumpers, undiluted! 

Now, dancers, link 
Firm hands, and freely foot it! 

Now let the priests, 
Mindful of Numa's ritual, 

Spread victim-feasts, 
And keep the rites habitual ! 

Till now, 't was wrong 
T' unlock th' ancestral cellar, 

"Where dormant long 
Bacchus remained a dweller; 

While Egypt's queen 
Vowed to erase (fond woman !) 

Rome's walls, and e'en 
The very name of Roman ! 

Girt with a band 
Of craven-hearted minions, 

Her march she planned 
Through Caesar's broad dominions! 

With visions sweet 
Of coming conquest flattered ; 

When, lo ! her fleet 
Agrippa fired and scattered ! 

While Caesar left 
Nor time nor space to rally; 

Of all bereft 
— All, save a single galley — 

Fain to escape 
When fate and friends forsook her, 

Of Egypt's grape 
She quaffed the maddening liquor t 

And turned her back 
On Italy's fair region ; — 

When soars the hawk 
So flies the timid pigeon ", 

So flies the hare, 
Pursued by Scythia's hunter, 

O'er fallows bare, 
Athwart the snows of winter. 

The die was cast, 
And chains she knew t' await her ;- 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



Queen to the last, 
She spurned the foeraau's fetter ; 

Nor shelter sought 
In hidden harbors meanly; — 

Nor feared the thought 
Of death — but met it queenly ! 

Untaught to bend, 
Calm 'mid a tottering palace — 

'Mid scenes that rend 
Weak woman's bosom, callous — 

Her arm could grasp 
The writhing snake ; nor waver, 

While of the asp 
It drank the venomed slaver 1 

Grim Death unawed 
She hailed with secret rapture, 

Glad to defraud 
Rome's galleys of a capture ! 

And, haughty dame, 
Scorning to live, the agent 



Of 






To grace a Roman pageant ! 



Odb XXXVIII.— Last Ode of Book 
First. 

AD HUnSTBUlL DIEECTIONB FOB BtTPPEB. 

Slave ! for my feast, in humble grot 
Let Persia's pomps be all forgot ; 
With twining garlands worry not 

Thy weary fingers, 
Nor heed in what secluded spot 

The last rose lingers. 

Let but a modest myrtle-wreath, 

In graceful guise, our temples sheathe 

Nor thou nor I aught else herewith 

Can want, I'm thinking. 
Cupbearer thou ; — and I, beneath 

The wine-tree drinking. 



II. Ode I. — To Pollio ok his Mkdita 

TED H18TORT. 



The story of our civil wars, 

Through all the changes that befell us, 
To chronicle thy pen prepares, 

Dating the record from Metellus ; — 
Of parties and of chiefs thy page 

Will paint the leagues, the plans, the forcet; 
Follow them through each varied stage, 

And trace the warfare to its sources. 

And thou wilt tell of swords still wet 

With unatoned-for blood : — historian, 
Bethink thee of thy risk ! ... ere yet 

Of Clio thou awake the clarion. 
Think of the tact which Rome requires 

In one who would such deeds unfold hes 
Know that thy tread is upon fires 

Which still beneath the ashes smoulder. 

Of Tragedy the weeping Muse 

Awhile in thee may mourn a truant. 
Whom varnished fiction vainly woos, 

Of stern realities pursuant : 
But finish thy laborious task, 

Our annals write with care and candor ; 
Then don the buskin and the mask, 

And tread through scenes of tragic grandeur. 

Star of the stage! to thee the Law 

Looks for her mildest, best expounder — 
Thee the rapt senate hears with awe, 

Wielding the bolts of patriot thunder — 
Thee Glory found beneath the tent, 

When from a desert wild and horrid, 
Dalmatia back in triumph sent 

Her conqueror, with laurelled forehead 1 

But, hark ! methinks the martial horn 

Gives prelude to thy coming story ; 
In fancy's ear shrill trumpets warn 

Of battle-field*, hard fought and gory : 
Fancy hath conjured up the scene, 

And phantom warriors crowd beside her — 
The squadron dight in dazzling sheen — 

The startled steed — th' affrighted rider! 

Hark to the shouts that echo loud 

From mighty chieftaios, shadowed grimly I 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



While blood and dust each hero shroud, 
Costume of slaughter — not unseemly : 

Vainly ye struggle, vanquished brave ! 
Doomed to see fortune still desert ye, 

Till all the world lies prostrate, save 
Unconquered Cato's savage virtue ! 

Juno, who loveth Afric most, 

And each dread tutelary godhead, 
Who guards her. black barbaric coast, 

Lybia with Roman gore have floolled: 
While warring thus the sons of those 

Whose prowess could of old subject her, 
Glutting the grudge of ancient foes, 

Fell — but to glad Jugurtha's spectre! 

Where be the distant land but drank 

Our Latium's noblest blood in torrents? 
Sad sepulchres, where'er it sank, 

Bear witness to each foul occurrence. 
Rude barbarous tribes have learned to scoff, 

Sure to exult at our undoing; — 
Persia hath heard with joy, far off, 

The sound of Rome's gigantic ruin ! 

Point out the gulf on ocean's verge — 

The stream remote, along whose channels 
Hath not been heard the mournful dirge 

That rose throughout our murderous annals- 
Show me the sea — without its tide 

Of blood upon the surface blushing — 
Show me the shore — with blood undyed 

From Roman veins profusely gushing. 

But, Muse ! a truce to themes like these — 

Let us strike up some jocund carol ; 
Nor pipe with old Simonides 

Dull solemn strains, morosely moral : 
Teach me a new, a livelier stave — 

Aud that we may the better chant it, 
Hie with me to the mystic cave, 

Grotto of song ! by Bacchus haunted. 



Lib. II. Ode IT. — Thoughts on Bullion and 
the Currency. 

AS OBOPUlf SALLTTBTIUM. 

■ Mr Sallust, say, in days of dearth, 
What is the lazy ingot worth, 
Deep in the bowels of the earth 
Allowed to settle, 



Unless a temperate use send forth 
The shining metal ? 

Blessings on him whose bounteous hoard 
A brother's ruined house restored — 
Spreading anew the orphan's board, 

With care paternal : 
Murena's fame aloft hath soared 

Od wings eternal ! 

Canst thou command thy lust for gold f 
Then art thou richer, friend, fourfold, 
Than if thy nod the marts controlled 

Where chiefest trade is — 
The Carthages both " new " and "old," 

The Nile and Cadiz. 

Mark yon hydropic sufferer, still 
Indulging in the draughts that fill 
His bloated frame, — insatiate, till 

D°ath end the sickly ; 
Unless the latent fount of ill 

Be dried up quickly. 

Heed not the vulgar tale that says 

— "ITe counts calm hours and happy day* 

Who from the throne of Cyrus sways 

The Persian sceptre :" 
Wisdom corrects the ill-used phrase — 

And — stern preceptor — 

Happy alone proclairaeth them, 
Who with undazzled eye contemn 
The pile of gold, the glittering gem, 

The bribe unholy — 
Palm, laurel-wreath, and diadem, 

Be theirs — theirs solely ! 



Lib. H. Ode III. — A Homily on Death. 



AD Q. DELLnm. 



Thee, whether Pain assail 

Or Pleasure pamper, 
Dellius — whiche'er prevail — 
Keep thou thy temper ; 
Unwed to boisterous joys, that ne'er 
Can save thee from the sepulchre ; 

Death smites the slave to spleen, 

Whose soul repineth, 
And him who on the green, 

Calm sage, reclineth, 



• 



294 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



Keeping — from grief's intrusion far — 
Blithe holiday with festal jar. 

Where giant fir, sun-proof, 

With poplar blendeth, 
Aud high o'er head a roof 
Of boughs extendeth ; 
While onward runs the crooked rill, 
Brisk fugitive, with murmur shrill. 

Bring wine, here, on the grass! 

Bring perfumes hither! 
Bring roses — which, alas! 
Too quickly wither — 
Ere of our days the spring-tide ebb, 
While the dark sisters weave our web. 

Soon — should the fatal shear 

Cut life's frail fibre- 
Broad lands, sweet Villa near 
The yellow Tiber, 
With all thy chattels rich and rare, 
Must travel to i 



Be thou the nobly born, 

Spoiled child of Fortune- 
Be thou the wretch forlorn, 
Whom wants importune — 
By sufferance thou art here at most, 
Till death shall claim his holocaust. 

All to the same dark bourne 

Plod on together — 
Lots from the same dread urn 
Leap forth — and, whether 
Our's be the first or last, Hell's wave 
Yawns for the exiles of the grave. 



Lib. II. Ode IV. — Classical Love Matches. 

" Ne Bit ancillffl tlbi amor padori," etc. 

** When the heart of a man is oppressed with care, 
The mist is dispelled if a woman appear ; 
Like the notes of a fiddle, she sweetly, sweetly, 
liaises his spirits and charms his ear." 

Captain Maohkath. 

O deem not thy love for a captive maid 
Doth, Phoceus, the heart of a Roman degrade! 
Like the noble Achilles, 'tis simply, simply, 
With a "Briseis" thou sharest thy bed. 



Ajax of Telamon did the same, 
Felt in his bosom a Phrygian flame! 
Taught to contemn none, King Agamemnon 
Fond of a Trojan slave became. 

Such was the rule with the Greeks of old, 
When they had conquered the foe's stronghold 
When gallant Hector — Troy's protector — 
Falling," the knell of Ilion tolled. 

Why deem her origin vile and base? 
Canst thou her pedigree fairly trace;? 
Yellow-haired Phyllis, slave tbo' she be, still is 
The last, perhaps, of a royal race. 

Birth to demeanor will sure respond — 
Phyllis is faithful, Phyllis is ton,' : 
Gold cannot buy her — then why Q'ny her 
A rank the basely born beyond ? 

Phyllis hath limbs divinely wrought, 
Features and figure without a fault. .. 
Do not feel jealous, friend, when a fellow's 
Fortieth year forbids the thought ! 



Lib. II. Ode VI. — The Attractions of 

TlBUR AND TaRENTUM. 
"Septiml, Gades," etc. 

Septimius, pledged with me to roam 
Far as the fierce Ibekian's home, 
Where men abide not yet o'ercorae 

By Roman legions. 
And Mauritanian billows foam — 

Barbaric regions ! 

Tibur ! — sweet colony of Greece ! — 
There let my devious wanderings cease;— 
There would I wait old age in peace, 

There calmly dwelling, 
A truce to war! — a long release 

From " colonelling ! " 

Whence to go forth should Fate ordain, 
Galesus, gentle flood! thy plain 
Speckled with sheep — might yet remain 

For heaven to grant us; 
Land that once knew the halcyon reigu 

Of King Phalantus. 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



295 



Spot of all earth most dear to me ! 


To hide her brow's dimiuished frown 


Teeming with sweets! the Attic bee, 


Low amid heaps of slaughter- 


O'er Mouut Hymettus ranging free, 




Finds not such honey — 


But Mercury, who kindly watched 


Nor basks the Capuan olive-tree 


Me 'mid that struggle deadry 


In soil more sunny. 


Stooped from a cloud, and quickly snatched 




His client from the medley. 


There lingering Spring is longest found : 


While thee, alas! the ebbing flood 


E'en Winter's breath is mild ;— and round 


Of war relentless swallowed, 


Delicious Aulon grapes abound, 


Replunging thee 'mid seas of blood; 


In mellow cluster ! 


And years of tempest followed. 


Such as Falernuin's richest ground 




Can rarely muster. 


Then slay to Jove the victim calf, 




Due to the God ; and weary, 


Romantic towers ! thrice happy scene ! 


Under my bower of laurels quaff 


There might our clays glide ou serene ; 


A wine-cup blithe and merry. 


Till thou bedew with tears, I ween, 


Here, while thy war-worn limbs repose. 


Of love sincerest, 


'Mid peaceful scenes sojourning, 


The dust of him who once had been 


Spare not the wine. . .'twas kept. . .it flows 


Thy friend, the Lyrist ! 


To welcome thy returning. 




Come, with oblivious bowls dispel 




Grief, care, and disappointment! 




Freely from yon capacious shell 


Lib, II. Ode VII. — A Fellow-Soldier wel- 


Shed, shed the balmy ointment! 


comed from Exile. 


Who for the genial banquet weaves 


"O«tpemeoum,"eto. 


Gay garlands, gathered newly ; 




Fresh with the garden's greenest leaves, 


Friend of my soul ! with whom arrayed 


Or twined with myrtle duly ? 


I stood in the ranks of peril, 




When Brutus at Philip-pi made 


Whom shall the dice's cast "wine-kino" 


That effort wild and sterile . . 


Elect, by Venus guided ? 


Who hath reopened Rome to thee, 


Quick, let my roof with wild mirth ring- 


Her temples and her forum ; 


Blame not my joy, nor chide it ! 


Beckoning the child of Italy 


Madly each bacchanalian feat 


Back to the clime that bore him? 


I mean to-day to rival, 




For, oh ! 'tis sweet thus . . . thus to qrekt 


Thou, my earliest comrade ! say, 


So DEAR A FRIEND'S ARRIVAL 1 


Pompey, was I thy teacher 




To baulk old Time, and drown the and 




Deep in a flowing pitcher? 




Think of the hours we thus consumed, 




While Syria's richest odors, ' 


Lib. n. Ode VIII. — The Ro^uebibs or 


Lavish of fragrancy, perfumed 


Barine. 


The locks of two marauders. 






D» BABISXH. 


With thee I shared Philippe's rout, 


Barine ! if, for each untruth, 


Though I, methinks, ran faster; 


Some blemish left a mark uncouth, 


Leaving behind — 'twas wrong, no doubt — 


With loss of beauty and of youth, 


My shield in the disaster: 


Or Heaven should alter 


E'en Fortitude that day broke down ; 


The whiteness of a single tooth— 


And the rude foeman taught her 


fair defaulter I 



298 



POEMS OF FRANCIS MAHONY. 



Then might I trust thy words. But thou 


Fresh courage nerve thee : 


Dost triumph o'er each broken vow ; 


Still on his bloodstained wheel he'll whet 


Falsehood would seetn to give thy brow 


His darts to serve thee ! 


Increased effulgence : 




Men still admire — and gods allow 


Fast as they grow, our youths enchain, 


Thee fresh indulgence. 


Fresh followers in beauty's train : 




While they who loved thee first would fain, 


Swear by thy mother's funeral urn — 


Charming deceiver, 


Swear by the stars that nightly burn 


Within thy threshold still remain, 


(Seeming in silent awe to mourn 


And love, forever ! 


O'er such deception) — 




Swear by each Deity in turn, 


Their sons from thee all mothers hide ; 


From Jove to Neptune : 


All thought of thee stern fathers chide ; 




Thy shadow haunts the new-made bride, 


Venus and all her Nymphs would yet 


And fears dishearten her, 


With smiles thy perjury abet — 


Lest thou inveigle from her side 


Cupid would laugh — Go on I and let 


Her life's young partner. 






THE POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. 



THE VOYAGE OF ST. BRENDAN. 



Not withstanding the manypoints of interest, topographical 
as well as historical, which the old " Legend of St. Brendan" 
possesses, it is somewhat difficult to find any satisfactory 
account of it even in works expressly devoted to the early 
legendary lore of Christian Ireland. Dr. Lanigan, in his Eccle- 
siastical History, has a passing allusion to it, but it is a con- 
temptuous one ; although, from all that appears, he does not 
seem to have possessed a fuller acquaintance with its details 
than might be gleaned from Colgan's incidental description of 
the Saint's visit to Arran, previous to his setting out on his 
great expedition. 

Colgan, in the passage referred to, promised to give a full 
account of this famous voyage when treating of St. Brendan's 
Festival on the 16th May. This promise I believe he fulfilled, 
but unfortunately the portion of hie great work, "Acta Sanc- 
torum Hiberniae," which contains this, in common with much 
other interesting matter, has never been published. The rare 
and valuable folio, which is so well known, includes only the 
lives of those Irish saints whose festivals occur before the 
end of March. In the public libraries both of England and 
Ireland MS. copies of the Latin legend may be met with, but 
not so frequently as in those on the Continent : the Biblio- 
theque unperiale at Paris alone containing, probably, a greater 
number than all the libraries of the three kingdoms put to- 
gether. In the old library close to St. Patrick's Cathedral, 
Dublin, founded by the Primate Marsh, there is a MS. com- 
monly, but incorrectly, called the "Codex Kilkeniensis,"' 
which, along with the lives of many other early Irish saints, 
contains a life of St. Brendan, which is, however, unfortu- 
nately, imperfect. The same library possesses a copy of the 
" Nova Legenda Angliae," compiled by Joannes Capgravins, 
and published in 1516. This also contains a life of St. Brendan, 
but carelessly and inaccurately abridged, after the manner of 
this writer. The "Legenda Aurea" of Jacobus de Voragine, 
that famous repertory of legends so popular in the thirteenth 
and succeeding centuries, makes no mention of the Irish 
Ulysses. Of this work, it is stated byBrunet, in his "Manuel 
du Libraire," that, previous to the year 1500, no less than 
seventy-four editions had appeared, and that up to that period 
it had been translated thirty times into foreign languages. 2 
The " Golden Legende" of Caxton, printed by Wynkin de 
Worde at Westminster in 1483, which might be thought a 
mere translation of the "Legenda Aurea" of Jacobus de Vora- 
gine just referred to, contains, however, many additional 
legends, the most interesting of which, perhaps, is the one 
devoted to St. Brendan. The fine copy of this rare and valua- 



ble book in the Grenville Collection at the British Mnseun 
had the pleasure of examining a few years ago, and of making 






Co- 



2 A very excellent edition of this rare book has been recently pub- 
lished by Dr. Th. Gruesse, Librarian to the Kiag of Saxony (Leipsic. 
Io50.) It contains many additional legends not to be found in the origi- 
nal work. There is also a French translation by M. G. B. in 2 vols., 
onl.li>r.ed br Oharlei (1 isselin. Paris, 1813. 



a transcript therefrom of the " Lyfe of Saint Brandon," which 
I subsequently published in the " Dublin University Maga- 
zine," vol. xxxix. p. 556, where it is to be found in all its 
original quaintness. 

Until very lately, no Irish version of the Legend, which on 
many accounts onght to be the most valuable, was available. 
A transcript of a copy, however, has been recently procured 
for the library of the Royal Irish Academy, Dublin ; but as it 
remains unedited and untranslated, its advantages to the gen- 
eral student are but slight. The Legend, which has thus been 
somewhat neglected in the country where it originated, has, 
however, attracted the notice of a distinguished French archae- 
ologist, M. Achille Jubinal, who has published the Latin 
original, as well as two early Romance versions of it, under 
the following title : — " La Legende Latiue de S. Brandainea 
avec une traduction en prose et en poesie Romanes." Paris, 
1S36. 

The Legend which concerns St. Brendan, says M. Achille 
Jubinal, in his Preface to the above scarce and interesting 
little tract, " is, without doubt, if we may judge by the multi- 
tude of narratives founded upon it which still exist, one o< 
those that were most widely diffused in the Middle Ages. 
This kind of monkish Odyssey is to be found, in fact, in most 
of the old European dialects ; and, thanks to the marvels of 
which it is the snhject, it must have obtained an immense 
popularity with our ancestors, and with the inhabitants of the 
British Isles generally— a people that have at all times been 
the playmates of the ocean." 

In the Bibliotheque Imperiale at Paris there are to be found 
no less than eleven MSS. of the original Latin legend, the 
dates of which vary from the eleventh to the fourteenth cen- 
tury. In the old French and Romance dialects copies both in 
prose and verse are abundant in the various public libraries of 
France, while versions in the Irish, Dutch, German, Italian, 
Spanish, and Portuguese languages are found scattered through 
the public and private libraries of colleges and convents all 
over the Continent. 

The Spaniards and Portuguese, down nearly to the middle 
of the eighteenth century, seem to have considered the 
legend a true narrative, and on several occasions fitted out 
flotillas for the purpose of ascertaining the exact locality of 
the islands supposed to have been discovered by St. Brendan. 

The first expedition, says M. Achille Jubinal, which had 
this object in view waB that of Fernando de Troya and Fer- 
nando Alvarez in 1526. It was not followed, as may well be 
imagined, by any successful result ; but this did not discourage 
the partisans of the singular illusion which had drawn these 
two men to Beek for the unknown island, since, somewhat 
later, Dr. Herman Perez de Grado fitted out a little armament 
destined for the same discovery. This new attempt was not 
more fortunate than the preceding. In fine, a third expedition 
confided to the renowned mariners Fray Lorenzo Pinedo and 
Gaspard Perez de Acosta, departed from the port of Palms, 



POEMS OF DENIS F. AIcCARTIIY. 



which had witnrsHcd the disappointment of the previous un- 
dertakings, bat did 1101 obtain any greater success. It is 
probable, after this, thai the zeal oi (lit- Spaniards chilled con- 
siderably; for during a century then- wan no further attempt 

to discover the position of ihis inland. Hut in 17*41, Don Juan 
dc Mur. Governor o,' rtie C;in:in<-s. o.n tided a ship to Gaspard 
Dominguez, which departed from the port of Santa Cruz, and 
returned after many mouths, without having discovered any- 
thing. From that time no further expedition lias l>een at- 
tempted. It was, however, a popular belief in Spain for a 
long time, that the Isle of St. Brendan, which was called by 
them Sun Borondon, had served as an asylum fur Kin-,' Rod- 
erick against the Moors, and that tola monarch dwelt there in 
an impenetrable fortress; and finally, that it was divided into 
seven opulent cities; that it had an archbishop, six bishops, 
seaports, large rivers, and that, as might be supposed, the in- 
habitants were good Christians, loaded with riches and all the 
other gifts of fortune. 

The Portuguese were not behind the Spaniards in the vivid- 
ness oi' i heir imagination. They were for a long period firmly 
persuaded that the Isle of St. Brendan was the asylum of King 
Don Sebastian ; and when they beheld the Indies for the first 
lime, tln-y were convinced they had at length discovered the 
long sought for Island of St. Brendan. 1 

The well-known story of Madoc, which seems like a lay ver- 
sion of the Legend of St. Brendan, is familiar to all from the 
fine poem of Southey, of which that prince is the hero. A 
Hill earlier Welsh tradition is mentioned by Southey, in his 
notes to 1 he same poem, of the " Gwerdonnau Llion," or Green 
Islands of the Ocean, in search of which the enchanter Merlin 
sailed in his house of glass, and from which expedition he 
never returned. 

The optical causes which prodnce the Fata Morgana in the 
Straits of Messina may have something to do with these vari- 
ous apparitions, as familiar now to the Tonga Islanders of the 
South Pacific, as of old time to the more sympathizing and 
credulous inhabitants oi Spain, of Portugal, and of Ireland. 3 

To return to the voyage of St. Brendan, the main incidents 
of which appear to be neither impossible nor improbable. 
These have been carefully abridged by the late licv. Cassar 
Otway in one of his very pleasing "Sketch-books of Irish 
Scenery. " The passage may serve as a sufficient explanation 
oftneuse I have made of the Legend in the composition of 
the following poem :— 

"We are informed that Brendan, hearing of the previous 
voyage of his cousin, Barinthus, in the western ocean, and 
obtaining an account from him of the happy isles he had landed 
on in the far west, determined, under the strong desire of 
winning heathen souls to Christ, to undertake a voyage of dis- 
covery himself. And, aware that all along the western coast 
ef Ireland there were many traditions respecting the existence 
of a western land, he proceeded to the Islands of A mm, and 
there remained for some time, holding communication with 
the venerable St. En da, and obtaining from him much infor- 
mation on what his mind was bent. There can be little doubt 
that he proceeded northward along the coast of Mayo, and 
made inquiry, among its bays and islands, of the remnants of 
the Tuatha Danaan people, that once were so expert in naval 
affairs, and who acquired from the Milesians, or Scots, that 
overcame them, the character of being magicians, for their 
superior knowledge. At Inniskea, then, and Innisgloria, 
Brendan set up his cross; and, in after-times, in his honor 
were erected those curious remains that still exist. Having 
prosecuted his inquiries with all diligence, Brendan returned 
to his native Kerry; and from a bay sheltered by the lofty 
mountain that is now known by his name, he set sail for the 
Atlantic land; and, directing his course toward the south- 
west, in order to meet the summer solstice, or what we would 
(.6.1 tne tropic, after a long and rough voyage, his little bark 
being well provisioned, he came to summer seas, where he was 
carried along, without the aid of sail or oar, for many a long 
day. This, it is to be presumed, was the great gulf-stream, 



and which brought his vessel to shore somewhere about tho 
Virginian capes, or where the American coast tends eastward, 
and forms the New England States. Here landing, he and hit- 
companions marched steadily into the interior for fifteen days, 
and then came to a large river, flowing from cast to west: thiB, 
evidently, was the river Ohio. And this the holy adventurer 
was about to cross, when he was accosted by a person of noble 
presence— but whether a real or visionary man does not ap- 
pear—who told him he had gone far enough ; that further dis- 
coveries were reserved Tor other men, who would, in due time, 
come and Christianize all that pleasant land. The above, when 
tested by common sense, clearly shows that Brendan landed 
on a continent, and went a good way into the interior, met a 
great river running in a different direction from those he 
heretofore crossed; and here, from the difficulty of transit, or 
want of provisions, or deterred by increasing difficulties, he 
turned back, and, no doubt, in a dream he saw some snch 
vision which embodied his own previous thought and satis 
fied him that it was expedient for him to return home. It is 
said he remained seven years away, and returned to set up a 
college of three thousand monks, at Clonfert, and he then 
died in the odor of sanctity."- -Cresar Otway's Sketclies in 
Erris and Tyrawley, note, pp. 98, 99. 

According to Colgan, St. Brendan set out on his voyage in 
545. Dr. Lanigan, however (Ecclesiastical Hist., vol. ii. p. 35), 
considers that it must have commenced some years earlier, as 
it is natural to suppose that Brendan was. at the time of un- 
dertaking such a perilous work, in the vigor of his age, and 
not sixty years old, a« he was in the year 545. 

I may add, in conclusion, that the " Paradisus Avium*' 
mentioned in Capgrave's version, and so picturesquely elabo- 
rated by Caston in "The Golden Legende,' 1 seemed to me a 
tempting opportunity of describing the more remarkable 
specimens of American Ornithology. This I have attempted, 
in the fifth part of the poem. 



PART I. 

THE VOCATION. 

O Ita !' mother of my heart and miml — 

My nourisher — my fosterer — my friend, 
Who taught me first, to God's great will re- 



Before his shining altar-steps to hend. 



1 The following carious account of St. Ita is to be found in 
Colgan's " Acta Sanctorum :" 

"St. Ita was of the princely family of the Desii, or Nandesi, 
in the now county of Waterford. By the divine command she 
established the convent of Cluain-Credhuil, in that portion of 
Hy-Couaill which constitutes the present barony of Connello, 
in the county of Limerick. When Brendan was a mere infant, 
he was placed under her care, and remained with her five 
years, after which period he was led away by Bishop Ercus, 
in order t'o receive from him the more solid instruction neces- 
sary for his advancing years. Brendan retained always the 
greatest respect and affection for his foster-mother ; and he is 
represented, after his seven years' voyage, amusing St. Ita 
with an account of his adventures in the ocean. He, however, 
was not the only person reared by the benevol ent abbess of 
Cluain-Credhuil ; her own nephew, Pulcherius, had also this 
enviable advantage. The manner of his birth, as described 
in Colgan, is so curious, that it is worth transcribing. His 
father's name was Beoanus ; he was a skilful artificer, and of 
an honorable family in Connaught ; but, being compelled to 
fly into exile, he came into the neighborhood of St. Ita. She, 
hearing of his professional skill, and being anxious to make 
some addition to the buildings of her convent, requested him 



POEMS OF DEXIS F. MoCAKTHY. 



Who poured bis word upon my soul like balm, 
And on mine eyes what pious fancy paints, 

And on mine ear the sweetly swelling psalm, 
And all the sacred knowledge of the saints. 



Who but to thee, my mother, should be told, 

Of all the wonders I have seen afar ?-^ 
Islands more green, and suns of brighter gold 
Than this dear land, or yonder blazing 
star; 
Of hills that bear the fruit-trees on their tops, 
And seas that dimple with eternal smiles ; 
Of airs from heaven that fan the golden 
crops, 
O'er the great ocean, 'mid the blessed 
isles ! 

in. 
Thou knowest, O my mother ! how to thee, 

The blessed Ercus led me when a boy, 
And how within thine arms and at thy knee 
I learned the lore that death cannot de- 
stroy ; 
And how I parted hence with bitter tears, 
And felt when turning from thy friendly 
door, 
Iu the reality of ripening years, 
My paradise of childhood was no more. 



I wept — but not with sin such tear-drops flow; 
I sighed — for earthly things with heaven 
entwine ; 



to undertake the work. He consented, on the conditions of 
receiving Nessa, the sister of the saint, as his wife, and also 
some land on which to settle. St. Ita acquiesced in the pro- 
position, and gave him her sister Nessa to wife ; and he, with 
great assiduity, applied himself to erect the buildings in the 
monastery of the saint. It happened, after a time, that in 
battle, whither he had followed a certain chieftain, Beoanus 
was killed ; and his head, being cut off, was carried away a 
great distance. St. Ita was, of course, very much grieved at 
this occurrence, particularly as she had promised her brother- 
in-law that he would have a son, which promise was unful- 
filled, as his wife had been sterile up to this time. St. Ita 
went to the field of battle, and found the mutilated body of 
Beoanus, but, of course, without the head. She however, 
prayed that it might be shown to her, and the head, through 
the divine power, flew through the air, and stopped where the 
body lay before her ; and the Lord, at the entreaty of his 
handmaid, made the head adhere to the body as perfectly as 
if it had never been cnt off, except that a slight mark of the 
wonnd remained : and the space of one honr having passed, 
he rose alive, saluting the servant of the Lord, and returning 
thanks to God, After the return of Beoanus, his wife con- 
ceived, and 6he brought forth a son, as St, Ita had promised. 
This son was Pulcheriue, and he remained with the saint 
in til he reacked his twentieth year."— Colgan's Acta Sancto- 



Tears make the harvest of the heart to grow, 
And love, though human, is almost divine. 
The heart that loves not knows not how to 
pray; 
That eye can never smile that never weeps; 
'Tis through our sighs Hope's kindling sun- 
beams play, 
And through our tears the bow of Promise 
peeps. 

v. 
I grew to manhood by the western wave, 

Among the mighty mountains on the shore ; 
My bed the rock within some natural cave, 

My food, whate'er the seas or seasons bore ; 
My occupation, morn and noon and night : 

The only dream my hasty slumbers gave, 
Was Time's unheeding, unreturning flight, 
And the great world that lies beyond the 
grave. 

VI. 

And thus, where'er I went, all things to me 
Assumed the one deep color of my mind ; 
Great Nature's prayer rose from the mur- 
muring sea, 
And sinful man sighed in the wintry wind. 
The thick-veiled clouds by shedding many a 
tear, 
Like penitents, grew purified and bright, 
And, bravely struggling through earth's at- 
mosphere, 
Passed to the regions of eternal light. 



I loved to watch the clouds, now dark and 
dun, 
In long procession and funereal line, 
Pass with slow pace across the glorious stra, 
Like hooded monks before a dazzling 
shrine. 
And now with gentler beauty as they rolled 

Along the azure vault in gladsome May, 
Gleaming pure white, and edged with broi- 
dered gold, 
Like snowy vestments on the Virgin's day. 



And then I saw the mighty sea expand 
Like Time's unmeasured and unfathomed 
waves, 

One with its tide-marks on the ridgy uand, 
The other with its line of weedy graves ; 



300 



POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHT. 



And as beyond the outstretched wave of 
Time 
The eye of Faith a brighter land may 
meet, 
So did I dream of some more sunny clime 
Beyond the waste of waters at my feet : 



Some clime where man, unknowing and un- 
known, 
For God's refreshing Word still gasps and 
faints ; 
Or happier rather some Elysian zone, 

Made for the habitation of His saints ; 
Where Nature's love the sweat of labor 
spares, 
Nor turns to usury the wealth it lends, 
Where the rich soil spontaneous harvest 
bears, 
And the tall tree with milk-filled clusters 



The thought grew stronger with my growing 
days, 
Even like to manhood's strengthening mind 
and limb, 
And often now amid the purple haze 

That evening breathed upon the horizon's 
rim — 
Methought, as there I sought my wished-for 
home, 
1 could descry amid the waters green, 
Full many a diamond shrine and golden 
dome, 
And crystal palaces of dazzling sheen. 



And then I longed with impotent desire, 
Even for the bow whereby the Python 
bled, 

That I might send one dart of living fire 
Into that land, before the vision fled; 

And thus at length fix thy enchanted shore, 
Hy-Brasail 1 — Eden of the western wave ! 



1 My-Brasall, or the Enchanted Island, which was supposed 
to be visible from the western coast of Ireland every seven 
years. The ballad of Gerald Griffin, and the frequent allusion 
to this subject in works recently published, render it unneces- 
sary to give any more particular description of it in this 
olace. Among the several modes of disenchanting this island, 
and others subject to similar eccentric disappearances, re- 
sorted to by our ancestors, that of fire seems to have been the 
one most frequently attempted, and the only one which was 



That thou again wouldst fade away no more, 
Buried and lost within thy azure grave. 



But angels came and whispered as I dreamt, 
" This is no phantom of a frenzied brain — 
God shows this land from time to time to 
tempt 
Some daring mariner across the main : 
By thee the mighty venture must be made, 
By thee shall myriad souls to Christ be 
won ! 
Arise, depart, and trust to God for aid !" 
I woke, and kneeling cried, " His will be 
done !" 



PART II. 
ARA OF THE SAINTS.* 

L 

Hearing how blessed Enda* lived apart, 

Amid the sacred caves of Ara-mhor, 
And how beneath his eye, spread like a chart, 

Lay all the isles of that remotest shore ; 
And how he had collected in his mind 

All that was known to man of the Old Sea,' 
I left the Hill of Miracles' behind, 

And sailed from out the shallow sandy 
Leigh." 



attended with any success ; as not only was the island of In- 
nisbofin, off the coast of Connemara, fixed in its present posi- 
tion by means of a few sparks of lighted turf falling upon it. 
bnt the still more celebrated Hy-Brasail itself seems to have 
met with the same disaster, if we are to credit a very matter- 
of-fact and circumstantial account, which may be seen in 
Hardiman's "Irish Minstrelsy," vol. i. p. 3B9. .Shooting a 
fiery arrow was one of the means resorted to for bringing the 
disenchanting element into connection with Hy-Brasail; it 
was certainly the most elegant method, if not the most suc- 
cessful. 

2 "From the number of holy men and women formerly inhab- 
iting Arran, it received the name of Ara-na-naomh, or ' Ara of 
the Saints. 1 " — Colgan, Acta Sanctorum, p. 710. n. IS. 

s " St. Enda, or Endeus, was the first abbot of Arran ; it was 
in the year 640, according to Colgan, that Brendan paid him 
the visit described in the text."— Ibid., p. 714. 

* "The Atlantic was anciently called Shan-arragh, or the 
Old Sea." — Sketches in Erris and Tyraivley* p. 51. 

6 It is not mentioned from what place Brendan proceeded on 
thi6 visit to Arran. It is extremely probable that it was from 
Ardfert, five miles northwest of Traiee, where he had before 
tiiis period established a monastery, and where a portion of 
his church (one of the most beautiful ruins in Kerry) still re- 
mains to this day. According to Sir James Ware (vol. i. p. 
518), Ardfert signifies " a wonderful place on an eminence," 
or, as some interpret it. " The Hill of Miracles." 

« Traiee was anciently written Traleigh. i.e." the strand of 
the river Leigh," which is a small stream that empties itself 
at the bottom of Traiee Bay. 



POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTIIY. 



301 



Betwixt the Samphire Isles 1 swam my light 
skiff, 
And like an arrow flew through Fenor 
Sound,' 
Swept by the pleasant strand," and the tall 
cliff 
Whereon the pale rose amethysts are 
found, 4 
Rounded Moyferta's rocky point,* and 



The mouth of stream-streaked Erin's might- 
iest tide, 
Whose troubled waves break o'er the City 
lost, 

Chafed by the marble turrets that they 
hide." 



Beneath Ibrickan's hills, moory and tame,' 
And Inniscaorach's caves, so wild and 
dark, 8 
I sailed along. The white-faced otter came,' 
And gazed in wonder on my floating bark. 
The soaring gannet 10 perched upon my mast, 
And the proud bird that flies but o'er the 
sea," 
Wheeled o'er my head: and the girrinna 



Upon the branch of some life-giving tree. 1 



» " The strand of F'il/yheigh is, in fine weather, a very pleaB- 
■mt ride."— Smith's Kerry, p. 208. 

• The Amethyst Miffs, near Kerry Head. Very fine ame- 
thysts have been found among these cliffs. Smith describes 
their colors as being of various degrees and shades of purple : 
Borne approach t<j a violet, and others to a pale rose-color. — 
p. 405. 

• Kerry Head, Dr Cape Lane, terminates the southern ex- 
tremity of the barony Moyferta, now called Moyarta, in the 
county of Clare. 

• " It is said that the mouth of the Shannon is the site of 
a lost city, and that its towers, and spires, and turrets, acting 
as breakers against the tide-wa'.er, occasion the roughness of 
this part of the estuary." — Had 1 '. Ireland, vol. iii. p. 436. For 
a story founded on this legend, see Part IV. of the " Voyage 
of St. Brendan," p. 190. 

'The barony of Ibrickar., in the county of Clare. 

• Enniskerry Island, half a mile from the Bhore. There are 
some curious natural caves here. 

• The white-faced otter, called by the Irish Dobhar-chu, is 
occasionally seen off the western coast of Connaught. Martin, 
in his " Description of the Western Isles," says that " seamen 
ascribe great virtue to its skin ; for they say that it is fortu- 
nate in battle, and that victory is always on its side." — p. 159. 

10 " Here the gannet Boars high into the sky. to espy his prey 
in Ihe sea under him," &c— O'Flaherty's West Connaught, 
». 12. 



Leaving the awful cliffs of C6rcomr6e, 

I sought the rocky eastern isle, that bears 
The name of blessed Coemhan, 1 ' who doth 
show 
Pity unto the storm-tossed seaman's 
prayers : 
Then crossing Bealach-na-fearbac's treach- 
erous sound," 
I reached the middle isle, whose citadel 
Looks like a monarch from its throne around ; 
And there I rested by St. Kennerg's well. 1 * 



Again I sailed, and crossed the stormy sound 
That lies beneath Binn-Aite's rocky height, 1 ' 
And there, upon the shore, the Saint I found 
Waiting my coming through the tardy 
night. 
He led me to his home beside the wave, 
Where, with his monks, the pious father 
dwelled, 
And to my listening ear he freely gave 
The sacred knowledge that his bosom held. 



When I proclaimed the project that I nursed, 
How 'twas for this that I his blessing 
sought, 
An irrepressible cry of joy outburst 

From his pure lips, that blessed me for 
the thought. 



" " Birds found in the high cliffs and rocks of Arran, which 
never fly but over the sea."— Ibid., p. 13. 

12 "Here is the bird engendered by the sea, out of timber 
long lying in the sea. Some call them clakes and soland geese, 
some puflins, and others barnacles, because they resemble 
them. We call them girrinn."— Ibid., p. 13. The Irish name 
is cadan girinna. 

13 " Saint Coemhan (Kevin) was brother to the celebrated 
Saint Kevin, of Glendalough. The third island of Arrac, Ic- 
nisoirthir, or the Eastern Isle, was also called Ara-Coemhan, 
in his honor. Hardiman says that he is the most famous 
of the saints of Arran, and that he is believed to have often 
abated storms, after having been piously invoked."— Ibid., 

" " Between the middle and eastern isle is Bealach-na-fear 
box, or the 'Foul Sound.'"— Ibid., note, p. 92. 

15 This is a beautiful spring in the middle isle, dedicated to 
Saint Kennerg, who, according to tradition, was daughter to 
a king of Leinster. "Her well," says O'Flaherty, "is there 
in a rock, and never becomes drie." — p. 86. The citadel al 
luded to is Dun- Conchobhir. It rivals Dun-JSngus, situated 
in the great island, both in masonry and extent.— Ibid., p. 77 

18 "Bealach-na-haite (now called Gregory's Sound) takes its 
name from Binn-Aite, an elevated part of the great island." 
—Hid., note, p. 92. 



POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHT. 



He said that he, too, had in visions strayed 

Over the untracked ocean's billowy foam ; 

Bid me have hope that God would give me 

aid, 

And bring me safe back to my native 

home. 



Oft, as we paced that marble-covered land, 1 
Would blessed Enda tell me wondrous 
tales — 
How, for the children of his love, the hand 
Of the Omnipotent Father never fails — 
How his own sister, standing by the side 
Of the great sea, which bore no human 
bark, 
Spread her light cloak upon the conscious 
tide, 
And sailed thereon securely as an ark. a 

vin. 
And how the winds become the willing 
slaves 
Of those who labor in the work of God ; 
And how Scothinus walked upon the waves, 
Which seemed to him the meadow's ver- 
dant sod. 3 



How he himself came hither with his flock, 
To teach the infidels from C6rcomr6e ;' 

Upon the floating breast of the hard rock, 
Which lay upon the glistening sands be- 



But not alone of miracles and joys 

Would Enda speak — he told me of his 
dream ; 
When blessed Kieran went to Clon-mac-nois, 
To found the sacred churches by the 
stream — 
How he had wept to see the angels flee 
Away from Arran, as a place accurst ; 
And men tear up the island-shading tree, 
Out of the soil from which it sprung at 
first.* 



At length I tore me from the good man's 
sight, 
And o'er Loch Lurgan's mouth took my 
lone way, 



> The surface of Arran is covered over with large fiat slab* 
of stone. Hardiman 6ays that the " Marble Islands" would 
Dot he a bad name for the Arran Isles generally. 

* "This sister was St. Fanchea, who, going with three fe- 
male companions to visit her brother Enda, who was then in 
Rome, came to the seaside ; and not finding a vessel to carry 
them over, spread her cloak upon the sea, and passed over 
onon it to the desired port of Britain. During the voyage, 
the hem of the cloak sank a little beneath the waves, in con- 
sequence of one of her companions having brought a brazen 
vessel with her from the convent, contrary to the expressed 
command of the saint. Upon her throwing it from her into 
the sea, the sinking hem rose np on a level with the rest of 
the cioak."— Colgan's Acta Sanctorum, p. 2. 

» " St. Scothinus, by fasting and other penitential observ- 
ances, had so purified his body, that he had the privilege of 
walking upon the sea with dry feet, and going upon it whither 
he pleased, without using auy ship or vessel whatsoever. In 
his Life it is mentioned that, upon one occasion, while he was 
thus walking over to Britain, a ship approached him, in which 
was the Bishop St. Barra,\vho beholding the man of God Sco- 
thinus. and recognizing him, inquired wherefore he walked 
npou the sea ? Scothinus replied, that it. was a flowery field 
on which he walked, and immediately extending his hand to 
the water, he plucked from the middle of the ocean a handful 
of rosy flowers, which, as a proof of his assertion, he flung in- 
to the bosom of the blessed bishop. The bishop, on the 
other hand, to prove that he was justified in making Buch an 
inquiry, drew a fish from the sea and threw it to St. Scothinus, 
and each, magnifying God for his miracles, went on his sepa- 
rate way."— Colgan's Acta Sanctorum, p. 10, chap. v. vi. 

* " This island (Ara-mhor) was inhabited by infldels ont of 
C'orcomroe, the next adjacent country in the county of Clare, 
when St. Enna (Enda) got it by the donation of Engus. King 



of Munster, anno Christi circiter 480."— O'Flaherty's »«« 
Connaught, p. 79. These " infidels" were headed by a chief, 
Corbanns, about whom the following curious story is told by 
Colgan. Being in possession of Arran previous to the arrival 
of St. Endan, he surrendered it to him with very bad grace, 
and was not perfectly convinced of his right to the island un- 
til after the occurrence of the following miracle. For, wish- 
ing to test how far St. Enda was protected by the celestial 
powers, he prepared a large barrel, which he filled with corn- 
seed, and leaving it on the shore of the mainland, he said to 
himself, 'If Enda be a favorite of heaven, this corn, which he 
so much requires, will be carried over to him in a miraculous 
manner.' Wonderful to relate, the event occurred precisely 
as he anticipated ; for the angel of God, taking the barrel, 
drew it through the sea, and the track of the barrel still re- 
mains in perpetual 6erenity amid the turbulence of the sur- 
rounding water."— Ibid., chap. xvi. p. 770. 

6 " When St. Enda obtained the grant of Arran from his 
brother-in-law, Engns MacNatfraich. for the purpose of erect- 
ing a monastery thereon, he proceeded with his disciples to 
the sea-shore, in order to pass over to Arran. There being 
no vessel at that place, and the saint not wishing to lose time, 
he ordered eight of his monks to raise a great stone, which 
lay upon the shore, and to place it in the water, and a favora- 
ble breeze springing up, they were wafted over the sea on 
this stone, in perfect safety, to Arran."— Ibid., chap. xiv. 
p. 707. 

« " When St. Kieran. with many pious followers, was about 
leaving Arran, to found the monastery of Clonmacnoise, up- 
on the Shannon, St. Enda had many visions, in one of which 
he saw all the angels who had hitherto been the guardians of 
that island departing from it in a great crowd. In another, 
he 6aw a mighty tree growing in the midst of Arran, with its 
branches extending all round to the sea, and many men came 
and dug up the tree by the roots, aud it was borne with them 
through the air, and replanted by the banks of the river Shan- 
non, where it grew to a still larger size."— Ibid., chap, xxviii. 
p. 710. According to Ussher, St. Kieran left Arran in tba 
year 53s. 



POEMS OF DENTS F. McCARTHY. 



Which, in the sunny morning's golden light, 

Shone like the burning lake of Lassarae,' 
Now 'neath heaven's frown — and now, be- 
neath its smile — 
Borne on the tide, or driven before the 
gale; 
And as I passed 'MacDara's sacred Isle, 
Thrice bowed my mast, and thrice let 
down my sail.* 



Westward of Arran, as I sailed away, 

I saw the fairest sight eye can behold, — 
Rocks which, illumined by the morning's 
ray, 
Seemed like a glorious city built of gold. 
Men moved along each sunny shining street, 
Fires seemed to blaze, and curling smoke 
to rise, 
When lo ! the city vanished, and a fleet, 
With snowy sails, rose on my ravished 
eyes.* 



Thus having sought for knowledge and for 
strength, 
For the unheard-of voyage that I planned, 
I left these myriad isles, and turned at length 
Southward my bark, and sought my na- 
tive land. 
There I made all things ready, day by day, 
The wicker boat, with ox-skins covered 
o'er — * 
Chose the good monks companions of my 
way, 
And waited for the wind to leave the 
shore. 



i " There is some uncommonly fine pasture-land about 
Moylough, and near it is a lake called Lough L3ssarse. or the 
illuminated lake. This was celebrated as a place of religiouB 
rite, even in the time of Paganism ; and its waters are said, 
every seventy years, to possess this luminous quality in ex- 
cess ; and then the people bring their children and cattle to 
be washed in its phosphoric waters, and they are considered to 
have no chance of dying that year."— Csesar Otway's Tour 
in Conimvght, p. 163. Lough Lurgan was the ancient name 
of Galway Bay. 

' This is the island formerly called Cruach. Mhic Dara, liter- 
Ally, the stack, or rick (from its appearance in the ocean) of 
MacDara, who is the patron saint of Moyrus parish. " The 
boats that pass between Mason-head and this island," Bays 
G'Flaherty, " have a custome to bow down their sails three 
times, in reverence to the saint."— Description ofH-Iar Con- 
naught, p. 99. 

3 These are the Skird Rocks, which are thus beautifully de- 
scribed by O'Flaherty: "There is. westward of Arran, in 
•ight of the next continent of Balynahynsy barony, Skerde, a 



PART III. 
THE VOYAGE. 

At length the day so long expected came, 
When from the opening arms of that wild 

Beneath the hill that bears my humble 
name,* 
Over the waves we took our untracked 
way: 
Sweetly the morning lay on tarn and rill, 
Gladly the waves played in its golden 
light, 
And the proud top of the majestic hill 

Shone in the azure air — serene and bright." 



Over the sea we flew that sunny morn, 
Not without natural tears and human 
sighs ; 
For who can leave the land where he was 
born, 
And where, perchance, a buried mother 
lies — 
Where all the friends of riper manhood 
dwell, 
And where the playmates of his childhood 
sleep — 
Who can depart and breathe a cold farewell, 
Nor let his eyes their honest tribute weep ? 



Our little bark, kissing the dimpled smiles 
On ocean's cheek, flew like a wanton bird ; 



wild island of huge rocks, the receptacle of a deal of seals 
thereon yearly slaughtered. These rocks sometimes appear 
to be a great city far oil', fall of houses, castles, towers, and 
chimneys : sometimes full of blazing flames, smoak, aud peo- 
ple running to and fro. Another day you would see nothing 
but a number of ships, with their sails and riggings : then bo 
many great stakes, or reeks of corn and turf; and this not 
only on a fair, sun-shining day, whereby it might be thought 
the reflection of the sunbeams, or the vapors arising about 
it, had been the cause, but also on dark and cloudy days hap- 
pening. There is another like number of rocks called Car- 
rigmeacan, on the same coast, whereon the like apparitions 
are seen. But the enchanted island of O'Brazil is not always 
visible, as those rocks are, nor these rockB have always those 
apparitions."— H-Iar Connaught, p. 69. 

* The vessel in which Brendan took his wonderful voyage 
was made of wattles, over which were ox-skins stretched, asd 
made water-proof with pitch and tallow. Boats of a similar 
construction are used to this day among the islands of West 
Connaught. 

• Brandon Hill. 

Smith, in his "History of Kerry," says: "It is a certain 
token of fine weather when its top is visible." — d. 194. 



304 



POEMS OF DENIS F. McCAKTHY. 



And then the land, with all its hundred isles, 

Faded away, and yet we spoke no word. 
Each silent tongue held converse with the 
past, 
Each moistened eye looked round the cir- 
cling wave, 
And, save the spot where stood our trem- 
bling mast, 
Saw all things hid within one mighty 
grave. 



We were alone, on the wide watery waste — 
Naught broke its bright monotony of blue, 
Save where the breeze the flying billows 
chased, 
Or where the clouds their purple shadows 
threw. 
We were alone — the pilgrims of the sea — 
One boundless azure desert round us 
spread ; 
No hope, no trust, no strength except in 
Thee, 
Father, who once the pilgrim-people led. 



And when the bright-faced sun resigned his 
throne 
Unto the Ethiop queen, who rules the 
night, — 
Who, with her pearly crown and starry zone, 
Fills the dark dome of heaven with silvery 
light,— 
As on we sailed, beneath her milder sway, 
And felt within our hearts her holier 
power, 
We ceased from toil, and humbly knelt to 
pray, 
And hailed with vesper hymns the tran- 
quil hour ! 

VI. 

For then, indeed, the vaulted heavens ap- 
peared 
A fitting shrine to hear their Maker's 
praise, — 
Such as no human architect has reared, 
Where gems, and gold, and precious mar- 
bles blaze. 
What earthly temple such a roof can boast ? 
What flickering lamp with the rich star- 
light vies. 



When the round moon rests, like the sacred 
Host, 
1 Tpon the azure altar of the skies ? 



We breathed aloud the Christian's filial 

prayer, 
Which makes us brothers even with the 

Lord; 
"Our Father," cried we, in the midnight 

air, 
" In heaven and earth be Thy great name 

adored ; 
May Thy bright kingdom, where the angels 

are, 
Replace this fleeting world, so dark and 

dim." 
And then, with eyes fixed on some glorious 

star, 
We sang the Virgin -Mother's vesper 

hymn: 



" Hail, brightest star ! that o'er life's trou- 
bled sea 
Shines pity down from heaven's elysian 
blue! 
Mother and maid, we fondly look to thee, 
Fair gate of bliss, where heaven beams 
brightly through. 
Star of the morning! guide our youthful 
days, 
Shine on our infant steps in life's long 
race; 
Star of the evening! with thy tranquil 
rays, 
Gladden the aged eyes that seek thy face. 

IX. 

" Hail, sacred maid ! thou brighter, better 
Eve, 
Take from our eyes the blinding scales of 
sin; 
Within our hearts no selfish poison leave, 
For thou the heavenly antidote canst 
win. 
O sacred Mother ! 'tis to thee we run — 
Poor children from this world's oppres- 
sive strife ; 
Ask all we need from thy immortal Son, 
Who drank of death, that we might taste 
of life. 



POEMS OF DENIS F. McCAKTHT. 



305 



" Hail, spotless Virgin ! mildest, meekest 
maid — 
Hail ! purest Pearl that Time's great sea 
hath borne — 
May our white souls, in purity arrayed, 

Shine as if they thy vestal-robes had worn ; 
Make our hearts pure, as thou thyself art 
pure — 
Make safe the rugged pathway of our 
lives, 
And make us pass to joys that will endure 
When the dark term of mortal life ar- 



'Twas thus in hymns, and prayers, and holy 
psalms, 
Day tracking day, and night succeeding 
night, 
Now driven by tempests, now delayed by 
calms, 
Along the sea we winged our varied flight. 
Oh ! how we longed and pined for sight of 
land ' 
Oh ! how we sighed for the green pleasant 
fields ! 
Compared with the cold waves, the barest 
strand — 
The bleakest rock — a crop of comfort 
yields. 



Sometimes, indeed, when the exhausted gale, 
In search of rest, beneath the waves would 
flee, 
Like some poor wretch, who, when his 
strength doth fail, 
Sinks in the smooth and unsupporting 
sea; 
Then would the Brothers draw from mem- 
ory's store 
Some chapter of life's misery or bliss — 
Some trial that some saintly spirit bore — 
Or else some tale of passion such as this : 



PART IV. 

THE BURIED CITY, 
i. 
Beside that giant stream that foams and 
swells 
Betwixt Hy-Conaill and Moyarta's shore, 
And guards the isle where good Senanus 
dwells,' 
A gentle maiden dwelt, in days of yore. 
She long has passed out of Time's aching 
womb, 
And breathes Eternity's favonian air; 
Yet fond Tradition lingers o'er her tomb, 
And paints her glorious features as they 



Her smile was Eden's pure and stainless 
light, 
Which never cloud nor earthly vapor 
mars; 
Her lustrous eyes were like the noon of 
night — 
Black, but yet brightened by a thousand 
stars ; 
Her tender form, moulded in modest grace, 
Shrank from the gazer's eye, and moved 
apart ; 
Heaven shone reflected in her angel face, 
And God reposed within her virgin heart 



She dwelt in green Moyarta's pleasant land, 
Beneath the graceful hills of Clonderlaw, 
Sweet sunny hills, whose triple summits 
stand 
One vast tiara over stream and shaw. 
Almost in solitude the maiden grew, 

And reached her early budding woman' 
prime ; 
And all so noiselessly the swift time flew, 
She knew not of the name or flight of 
Time. 



1 The three preceding stanzas are a paraphrase of the bean- occasion the roughness of this part of the eBtnary. The whole 
tifnl hymr of the Catholic Church, " Ave, Maris Stella." city becomes visible on every seventh year, and has been 

2 " The mouth of the Shannon is grand, almost beyond con- often seen by the fishermen sailing over it ; but the sight bodes 
cention. Its inhabitants point to a part of the river, within I ill-luck, for within a month after the ill-fated sailor is a corpse, 
t.ir headlands, over which the tides rush with extraordinary ] The time of its appearance is also rendered further disastrous 
rapidity and violence. They say it is the site of a lost city, j by the loss of some boat or vessel, of which, or its crew, no 
long buried beneath the waves: and that its towers, and vestige is ever to be found."— Hall's lrdand, vol. iii. p. 430. 
Bfcires, and turrets, acting as breakers against the tide-water, I » Inniscattery Island. 



POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHT. 



And thus within her modest mountain nest, 

This gentle maiden nestled like a dove, 
Offering to God from her pure, innocent 
breast 

The sweet and silent incense of her love. 
No selfish feeling nor presumptuous pride 

In her calm bosom waged unnatural strife. 
Saint of her home and hearth, she sanctified 

The thousand trivial, common cares of life. 



Upon the opposite shore there dwelt a youth, 
Whose nature's woof was woven of good 
and ill — 
"Whose stream of life flowed to the sea of 
truth, 
But in a devious course, round many a 
hill- 
Now lingering through a valley of delight, 
Where sweet flowers bloomed, and sum- 
mer song-birds sung, 
Now hurled along the dark tempestuous 
night, 
With gloomy, treeless mountains over- 
hung. 

VI. 

He sought the soul of Beauty throughout 
space, — 
Knowledge he tracked through many a 
vanished age : 
For one he scanned fair Nature's radiant 
face, 
And for the other, Learning's shrivelled 
page. 
If Beauty sent some fair apostle down, 
Or Knowledge some great teacher of her 
lore, 
Bearing the wreal"h of rapture and the crown, 
He knelt to love, to learn, and to adore. 



Full many a time he spread his little sail, — 
How rough the river, or how dark the 
skies, — 
Gave his light currach to the angry gale, 
And crossed the stream to gaze on Ethna's 
eyes. 
As yet 'twas worship, more than human 
love- 
That hopeless adoration that we pay 



Unto some glorious planet throned above, 
Though severed from its crystal sphere for 
aye. 



But warmer love an easy conquest won, 
The more he came to green Moyarta's 
bowers ; 
Even as the earth, by gazing on the sun, 
In summer-time puts forth her myriad 
flowers. 
The yearnings of his heart — vague, unde- 
fined — 
Wakened and solaced by ideal gleams, 
Took everlasting shape, and intertwined 
Around this incarnation of his dreams. 



Some strange fatality restrained his tongue — 
He spoke not of the love that filled his 
breast : 
The thread of hope, on which his whole life 
hung, 
Was far too weak to bear so strong a test. 
He trusted to the future — time or chance — 
His constant homage, and assiduous care; 
Preferred to dream and lengthen out his 
trance, 
Rather than wake to knowledge and de- 
spair. 



And thus she knew not, when the youth 
would look 
Upon some pictured chronicle of eld, 
In every blazoned letter of the book 

One fairest face was all that he beheld : 
And where the limner, with consummate 
art, 
Drew flowing lines and quaint devices 
rare, 
The wildered youth, by looking from the 
heart, 
Saw naught but lustrous eyes and waving 
hair. 



He soon was startled from his dreams, for now 
' Twas said, obedient to a heavenly call, 

His life of life would take the vestal vow, 
In one short month, within a convent's 
wall. 



POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. 



307 



He heard the tidings with a sickening fear, 
But quickly had the sudden faintness 
flown, 
And vowed, though heaven or hell should 
interfere, 
Ethna — his Ethna — should be his alone ! 



He sought his boat, and snatched the feath- 
ery oar — 
It was the first and brightest morn of 
May; 
The white-winged clouds that sought the 
northern shore, 
Seemed but love's guides, to point him out 
the way. 
The great old river heaved its mighty heart, 
And, with a solemn sigh, went calmly on, 
As if of all his griefs it felt a part, 
But knew they should be borne, and so 
had gone. 



Slowly his boat the languid breeze obeyed, 
Although the stream that that light bur- 
den bore 
Was like the level path the angels made, 
Through the rough sea, to Arran's blessed 
shore ; ' 
And from the rosy clouds the light airs 



And from the rich reflection that they 

gave, 
Like good Scothinus, had he reached his 

hand," 
He might have plucked a garland from 

the wave. 



And now the noon in purple splendor blazed, 
The gorgeous clouds in slow procession 
filed— 
The youth leaned o'er with listless eyes, and 
gazed 
Down through the waves on which the 
blue heavens smiled : 
What sudden fear his gasping breath doth 
drown ? 
What hidden wonder fires his startled 
eyes? 



Down in the deep, full many a fathom down, 
A great and glorious city buried lies. 



Not like those villages with rude-built walls, 
That raised their humble roofs round 
every coast, 
But holding marble basilics and halls, 

Such as imperial Rome itself might boast. 
There were the palace and the poor man's 
home, 
And upstart glitter and old-fashioned 
gloom, 
The spacious porch, the nicely rounded 
dome, 
The hero's column, and the martyr's tomb. 



There was the cromleach, with its circling 



There the green rath, and the round nar- 
row tower ; 
There was the prison whence the captive's 
groans 
Had many a time moaned in the midnight 
hour. 
Beneath the graceful arch the river flowed, 
Around the walls the sparkling waters 
ran, 
The golden chariot rolled along the road, — 
All, all was there except the face of man. 



The wondering youth had neither thought 
nor word, 
He felt alone the power and will to die ; 
His little bark seemed like an outstretched 
bird, 
Floating along that city's azure sky. 
It was not that he was not bold and brave, 
And yet he would have perished with 
affright, 
Had not the breeze, rippling the lucid wave, 
Concealed the buried city from his sight. 

xvni. 
He reached the shore: the rumor was too 
true — 
Ethna, his Ethna, would be God's alone 



POEMS OF DENIS F. McCAKTIIY. 



In one brief month ; for which the maid 
withdrew, 
To seek for strength before His blessed 
throne. 
Was it the fire that on his bosom preyed, 

Or the temptation of the Fiend abhorred, 
That made him vow to snatch the white- 
veiled maid 
Even from the very altar of her Lord ! 



The first of June, that festival of flowers, 
Came, like a goddess, o'er the meadows 
green ! 
And all the children of the spring-tide 
showers 
Rose from their grassy beds to hail their 
Queen. 
A song of joy, a pajan of delight, 

Rose from the myriad life in the tall 
grass, 
When the young Dawn, fresh from the sleep 
of night, 
Glanced at her blushing face in Ocean's 
glass. 



Ethna awoke — a second, brighter dawn — 
Her mother's fondling voice breathed in 
her ear : 
Quick from her couch she started, as a fawn 
Bounds from the heather when her dam 
is near. 
Each clasped the other in a long embrace — 
Each knew the other's heart did beat and 
bleed — 
Each kissed the warm tears from the other's 
face, 
And gave the consolation she did need. 

XXI. 

Oh ! bitterest sacrifice the heart can make — 

That of a mother of her darling child — 
That of a child, who, for the Saviour's sake, 

Leaves the fond face that o'er her cradle 
smiled ! 
They who may think that God doth never 
need 

So great, so sad a sacrifice as this, 
While they take glory in their easier creed, 

Will feel and own the sacrifice it is. 



All is prepared — the sisters in the choir — 

The mitred abbot on his crimson throne — 
The waxen tapers with their pallid fire 

Poured o'er the sacred cup and altar- 
stone — 
The upturned eyes, glistening with pious 
tears — 

The censer's fragrant vapor floating o'er. 
Now all is hushed, for, lo ! the maid appears, 

Entering with solemn step the sacred door. 



She moved as moves the moon, radiant and 
pale, 
Through the calm night, wrapped in a sil- 
very cloud ; 
The jewels of her di - ess shone through her 
veil, 
As shine the stars through their thin va- 
porous shroud ; 
The brighter jewels of her eyes were hid 
Beneath their smooth white caskets arch- 
ing o'er, 
WMch, by the trembling of each ivory lid, 
Seemed conscious of the treasures that 
they bore. 



She reached the narrow porch and the tall 
door, 
Her trembling foot upon the sill was 
placed — 
Her snowy veil swept the smooth-sanded 
floor — 
Her cold hands chilled the bosom they 
embraced. 
Who is this youth, whose forehead, like a 
book, 
Bears many a deep-traced character ot 
pain? 
Who looks for pardon as the damned may 
look — 
That ever pray, and know they pray in 



Tis he, the wretched youth — the Demon's 
prey. 
One sudden bound, and he is at her 
side — 



POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. 



One piercing shriek, and she has swooned 
away, 
Dim are her eyes, and cold her heart's 
warm tide. 
Horror and terror seized the startled crowd ; 
Their sinewy hands are nerveless with af- 
fright; 
When, as the wind beareth a summer cloud, 
The youth bears off the maiden from their 



Close to the place the stream rushed roaring 

by, 

His little boat lay moored beneath the 
bank, 
Hid from the shore, and from the gazer's 
eye, 
By waving reeds and water-willows dank. 
Hither, with flying feet and glowing bi-ow, 
He fled as quick as fancies in a dream — 
Placed the insensate maiden in the prow — 
Pushed from the shore, and gained the 
open stream. 



Scare: nad he left the river's foamy edge, 
When sudden darkness fell on hill and 
plain ; 
The angry Sun, shocked at the sacrilege, 
Fled from the heavens with all his golden 
train ; 
The stream rushed quicker, like a man 
afeared ; 
Down swept the storm and clove its breast 
of green, 
And though the calm and brightness reap- 
peared, 
The youth and maiden never more were 
seen. 



Whether the current in its strong arms bore 
Their bark to green Hy-Brasail's fairy 
halls, 
Oi whether, as is told along that shore, 

They sunk within the buried city's walls ; 
Whether through some Elysian clime they 
stray, 
Or o'er their whitened bones the river 
rolls : — 



Whate'er their fate, my brothers, let us pray 
To God for peace and pardon to their souls. 



Such was the brother's tale of earthly love — 
He ceased, and sadly bowed his reverend 
head: 
For us, we wept, and raised our eyes above, 
And sang the De Profundis for the dead. 
A freshening breeze played on our moistened 
cheeks, 
The far horizon oped its walls of light, 
And lo! with purple hills and sunbright 
peaks 
A glorious isle gleamed on our gladdened 
sight. 



PART V. 
THE PARADISE OF BIRDS. 

L 

It was the fairest and the sweetest scene — 
The freshest, sunniest, smiling land that 
e'er 
Held o'er the waves its arms of sheltering 
green 
Unto the sea and stormed-vexed mariner : 
No barren waste its gentle bosom scarred, 
Nor suns that burn, nor breezes winged 
with ice, 
Nor jagged rocks — Nature's gray ruins — 
marred 
The perfect features of that Paradise. 



The verdant turf spreads from the crystal 
marge 
Of the clear stream, up the soft-swelling 
hill, 
Rose-bearing shrubs and stately cedars large, 
All o'er the land the pleasant prospect fill. 
Unnumbered birds their glorious colors fling 
Among the boughs that rustle in the 
breeze, 
As if the meadow-flowers had taken wing 
And settled on the green o'erarching trees. 



POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTIIY. 



Oh ! Ita, Ita ! 'tis a grievous wrong, 

That man commits who, uninspired, pre- 
sumes 
To sing the heavenly sweetness of their song, 
To paint the glorious tinting of their 
plumes — 
Plumes bright as jewels that from diadems 
Fling over golden thrones their diamond 
rays — 
Bright, even as bright as those three mystic 
gems 
The angels bore thee in thy childhood's 
days. 1 



There dwells the bird that to the farther west 
Bears the sweet message of the coming 
spring ; a 
June's blushing roses paint his prophet 
breast, 
And summer skies gleam from his azure 
wing. 
While winter prowls around the neighbor- 
ing seas, 
The happy bird dwells in his cedar nest, 
Then flies away, and leaves his favorite trees 
Unto his brother of the graceful crest.' 



Birds that with us are clothed in modest 
brown, 
There wear a splendor words cannot ex- 
press. 



' " Upon a certain occasion, when St. Ita was sleeping, she 
saw an angel approach her, and present her with three pre- 
cious stones, at which she wondered exceedingly, until in- 
formed by the angel that the three precious stones were types 
of the blessed Trinity, by whom she would be always visited 
and protected."— Life of St. Ita, in Colgan, p. 66. 

3 The Blue Bird (Le rouge gorge bleu de Buffon). " The 
pleasing manners and sociable disposition of this little bird 
entitle him to particular notice. As one of the first messen- 
gers of the spring, bringing the charming tidings to our very 
doors, he bears his own recommendation along with him, and 
meets with a hearty welcome from everybody." — Wilson and 
Bonaparte's American Ornithology, vol. i. pp. 56, 57. His fa- 
vorite haunts are the cedar-trees of the Bermudas. 

• The Cedar Bird. "This bird wears a crest on the head, 
which, when erected, gives it a gay and elegant appearance." 
—Ibid., vol. i. p. 109. 

• The Golden-crowned Thrush. " Sciurus Aurocapillus."— 
Ibid., vol. i. p. 2.18. 

• The Scarlet Tanagar.— " Seen among the green leaves with 
the light falling strongly on his plumage, he really appears 
beautiful."— Ibid., vol. i. p. 194. "Mr. Edwards calls it the 
Scarlet Sparrow."— Ibid., p. 196. 

• The Baltimore Oriole.—" It has a variety of names, among 



The sweet-voiced thrush beareth a golden 
crown,' 
And even the sparrow boasts a scarlet 
dress.' 
There partial Nature fondles and illumes 
The plainest offspring that her bosom 
bears ; 
The golden robin flies on fiery plumes,* 
And the small wren a purple ruby wears.* 



Birds, too, that even in our sunniest hours, 
Ne'er to this cloudy land one moment 
stray, 
Whose brilliant plumes, fleeting and fair as 
flowers, 
Come with the flowers, and with the flow- 
ers decay." 
The Indian bird, with hundred eyes, that 
throws 
From his blue neck the azure of the skies, 
And his pale brother of the northern snows, 
Bearing white plumes mirrored with bril- 
liant eyes." 



Oft, in the sunny mornings, have I seen 

Bright-yellow birds, of a rich lemon hue, 

Meeting in crowds upon the branches gr<;en, 

And sweetly singing all the morning 

through ; 10 

And others, with their heads grayish and Jark, 

Pressing their cinnamon cheeks to the old 

trees, 



which are 'the golden robin,' and ' the fire-bird:' the latter 
from the bright orange of its plumes, shining through the 
green leaves like a flash of fire."— Ibid., vol. i. p. 16. 

' The Ruby-crowned Wren.—'- This little bird visits us 
early in the spring, from the south, and is generally found 
among the maple blossoms about the beginning of April."— 
Ibid., vol. i. p. 831. 

e Peacocks. — "Their brilliant plumes, which surpass in 
beauty the fairest flowers, wither like them, and fall with 
each succeeding year."— Bujfora. 

» The Wbite Peacock of Sweden.— "Although the plu- 
mage of the white peacock is altogether of this color, the long 
plumes of the train do yet retain, at their extremities, some 
vestige9 of the brilliant mirrors peculiar to the species."— Oli- 
vier. These are the only birdB not strictly American that I 
have introduced into this description. 

10 The Yellow Bird, or Goldfinch : itB color is of a rich lemon 
shade. " Ou their first arrival in Pennsylvania, in February, 
and until early in April, they frequently assemble in great 
numbers on the same tree, and bask and dress themselves ro 
the morning sun, singing in concert for half an hour together; 
the confused mingling of their notes forming a kind of har- 
mony not at all unpleasant." — Wilson and Bonaparte, vol. i. 
p. 12. 



POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. 



And striking on the hard, rough, shrivelled 
bark, 
Like conscience on a bosom ill at ease. 1 



And diamond-birds chirping their single 
notes, 
Now 'mid the trumpet-flower's deep blos- 
soms seen, 
Now floating brightly on with fiery throats, 
Small-winged emeralds of golden green ; a 
And other larger birds with orange cheeks, 
A many-color-painted chattering crowd, 
Prattling forever with their curved beaks, 
And through the silent woods screaming 
aloud. 3 



Color and form may be conveyed in words, 
But words are weak to tell the heavenly 
strains 
That from the throats of these celestial birds 
Rang through the woods and o'er the 
echoing plains : 
There was the meadow-lark, with voice as 
sweet, 
But robed in richer raiment than our 
own ; 4 
And as the moon smiled on his green retreat, 
The painted nightingale sang out alone. 6 



1 The Gold-winged Woodpecker.— " His back and wings 
are of a dark amber-color ; upper part of the head an iron gray ; 
cheeks, and part surrounding the eyes, of a fine cinnamon- 
color. The sagacity of this bird in discovering, under a sound 
bark, a hollow limb or trunk of a tree, is truly surprising." — 
Wilson and Bonaparte, vol. i. p. 45. 

3 Humming-birds.—" The Jewels of Ornithology" — " Least 
of the winged vagrants of the sky. 11 Wilson describes this 
interest ; ng bird in the following manner :— " The Humming- 
bird is extremely fond of tubular flowers, and I have often 
stopped with pleasure to observe his manoeuvres among the 
blossoms of the trumpet-flower. When arrived before a 
thicket of those that are full-blown, he poises or suspends 
himself on wing for the space of two or three seconds so Btead- 
ily, that his wings become invisible, or only like a mist, and 
yon can plainly distinguish the pupil of his eye looking 
round with great quickness aad circumspection. The glossy 
golden green of his back, and the fur of his throat dazzling 
in the sun, form altogether a most interesting appearance." — 
Ibid., p. 179. His only note is a single chirp, not louder than 
that of a small cricket or grasshopper. 

« The Carolina Parrot.—" Out of 168 kinds of parrots enu- 
merated by Europeans, this is the only species which may 
be considered a native of the territory of the United States." 
— Ibid., vol. i. p. 387. 

• "The Meadow-lark, though inferior in song to his Euro- 
pean namesake, is superior to him in the richness of his plu- 
mage." — Ibid., vol. i. p. 318. 

* "The Cardinal Grosbeak, or Red-bird, sometimes called 
the Virginia Nightingale."— Ibid., vol. i. p. 191. 



Words cannot echo music's winged note, 
One bird alone exhausts their utmost 
power ; 
' Tis that strange bird whose many-voiced 
throat 
Mocks all his brethren of the woodland 
bower — 
To whom, indeed, the gift of tongues is 
given, 
The musical rich tongues that filL the 
grove, 
Now like the lark dropping his notes from 
heaven, 
Now cooing the soft earth-notes of the 
dove.' 



Oft have I seen him, scorning all control, 

Winging his arrowy flight rapid and 
strong, 
As if in search of his evanished soul, 

Lost in the gushing ecstasy of song ; ' 
And as I wandered on, and upward gazed, 

Half lost in admiration, half in fear, 
I left the brothers wondering and amazed, 

Thinking that all the choir of heaven was 
near. 



Was it a revelation or a dream ?— 

That these bright birds as angels once 
did dwell 
In heaven with starry Lucifer supreme, 
Half sinned with him, and with him part- 
ly fell ; 



• The Mocking-bird (Tardus Folyglottw).— "His voice i» 
full, strong, and musical, and capable of almost every modu- 
lation, from the clear, mellow tones of the wood-thrush to 
the savage scream of the eagle."— Ibid., vol. i. p. 168. "So 
perfect are his imitations, that he many times deceives the 
sportsman, and sends him in search of birds that are not 
within miles of him, but whose notes he exactly imitates. 
Even birds themselves are often imposed on by this admira- 
ble mimic, and are decoyed by the fanciful calls of their mates, 
or dive with precipitation into the depths of thickets, at the 
scream of what they suppose to be the sparrow-hawk."— Ibid., 
vol. i. p. 169. 

T His expanded wings and tail glistening with white, and: 
the buoyant gayety of his action, arrest the eye, and his song 
most irresistibly does the ear, as he sweeps round with en- 
thusiastic ecstasy. He mounts aud descends as his song 
swells or dies away ; and, as Mr. F.artram has beautifully ex- 
pressed it, " He bounds aloft with the celerity of an arrow, as 
if to recover or recall his very soul, expired in the last eleva- 
ted strain."— Ibid., vol. i. p. 169. 



312 



POEMS OF DEXIS F. McCARTHT. 



That in this lesser paradise they stray, 
Float through its air, and glide its streams 
along, 
And that the strains they sing each happy 
day 
Rise up to God like morn and even song. 1 



PART VI. 

THE PROMISED LAND. ■ 

i. 

As on this world the young man turns his 
eyes, 
When forced to try the dark sea of the 
grave, 
Thus did we gaze upon that paradise, 

Fading, as we were borne across the wave. 
And as a brighter world dawns by degrees 

Upon Eternity's serenest strand, 
Thus having passed through dark and 
gloomy seas, 
At length we reached the long-sought 
Promised Land. 



The wind had died upon the ocean's breast, 
When, like a silvery vein through the 
dark ore, 
A smooth, bright current, gliding to the 
west, 
Bore our light bark to that enchanted 
shore. 



i " Soon after, as God would, they saw a fair island, fall of 
flowers, herbs, and trees, whereof they thanked God of his 
pood grace ; and anon they went on land, and when they had 
gone lung in this, they found a full fayre well, and thereby 
stood a fair tree full of boughs, and on every bough sat a fayre 
i the tree, that uneath any leaf of 



bird, and Ihey -a! so thick 
the tree might be seen. The number 
and they sung so mcrrilie, that it was an heavenlike noise to 
hear. Whereupon S. Brandon kneeled down on his knees 
and wept for joy, and made his praises devoutlie to our Lord 
God, to know what these birds meant. And then anon one 
of the birds flew from the tree to S. Brandon, and he, with 
the flickering of his wings, made a full merrie noise like a fid- 
dle, thai him seemed he never heard so joyful a melodic. 
And then St, Brandon commanded the foul e to tell him the 
cause why they sat so thick on the tree and sang so merrilie. 
And then the Tonic said. Sometime we were angels in hea- 
ven, inn when our master, Lucifer, fell down into hell for his 
high pride, and we Tell with him for our offences, some higher 
ami sonic lower, after the quality of the trespass. And he- 
cau-e our trespasse is but little, therefore our Lord hath sent 
n^ here, out of all paine. in full great joy and mirlhc. after his 
li, easing, here t-o serve him on this tree In the besl maimer 



It was a lovely plain — spacious and fair, 
And blessed with all delights that eartU 
can hold, 
Celestial odors filled the fragrant air 
That breathed around that green and 
pleasant wold. 



There may not rage of frost, nor snow, nor 

rain, 
Injure the smallest and most delicate 

flower, 
Nor fall of hail wound the fair, healthful 

plain, 
Nor the warm weather, nor the winter's 

shower. 
That noble land is all with blossoms flowered, 
Shed by the summer breezes as they pass ; 
Less leaves than blossoms on the trees are 

showered, 
And flowers grow thicker in the fields than 

grass. 3 

rv. 

Nor hills, nor mountains, there stand high 
and steep, 
Nor stony cliffs tower o'er the frightened 
waves, 
Nor hollow dells, where stagnant waters 
sleep, 
Nor hilly risings, nor dark mountain 
caves ; 
Nothing deformed upon its bosom lies, 
Nor on its level breast rests aught un- 
smooth ; — 



we can. The Sundaie is a daie of rest from all worldly occu- 
pation, and therefore, that, daie all we be made as white as 
any snow, for to praise our Lorde, in the best wise we may. 
And then all the birds began to sing even Bong so merrilie, 
that it was an heavenlie noise to hear: and after supper St. 
Brandon and his fellows went to bed and slept wed. And in 
the morn they arose by times, and then these foulos began 
mattyns, prime, and hours, and all such service as Christian 
men used to sing; and St. Brandon and his fellows abode 
there seven weeks, until Trinity Sunday was passed."— The 
" Lijfe of St. Brandon " in the Golden Legend. Published by 
Wynkyn de Worde. 14S3. Pol. 357. 

* The earlier stanzas of this description of Paradise are prin- 
cipally founded upon the Anglo-Saxon version of the Latin 
poem " De Phenice," ascribed to Lactantius, a literal transla- 
tion of which is given in Wright's Essay on " St. Patrick's 
Purgatory," p. 186. "This poem," says Mr. Wright, "is as 
old as the earlier part of the eleventh century, and probablj 
more ancient." 

3 "Nullam herbam vidimus sine floribus et arborem nullam 
sine fractions; et lapides illius pretiosa? gemma; sunt."— 
Colgan's Acta Sanctorum, p. 721. 



POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHF. 



313 



A green, glad meadow under golden skies, 
Blooming forever in perpetual youth. 



That glorious land stands higher o'er the 
sea, 
By twelve-fold fathom measure, than we 
deem 
The highest hills beneath the heavens to be. 
There the bower glitters, and the green 
woods gleam. 
All o'er that pleasant plain, calm and serene, 
The fruits ne'er fall, but, hung by God's 
own hand, 
Cling to the trees that stand forever green, 
Obedient to their Maker's first command. 



Summer and winter are the woods the same, 
Hung with bright fruits and leaves that 
never fade ; 
Such will they be, beyond the reach of flame, 
Till Heaven, and Earth, and Time shall 
have decayed. 
Here might Iduna in her fond pursuit, 

As fabled by the northern sea-born men, 
Gather her golden and immortal fruit, 
That brings their youth back to the gods 
again. 1 



Of old, when God, to punish sinful pride, 
Set round the deluged world the ocean- 
flood, 
When all the earth lay 'neath the vengeful 
tide, 
This glorious land above the waters stood. 
Such shall it be at last, even as at first, 

Until the coming of the final doom, 
When the dark chambers — men's death- 
homes — shall burst, 
And man shall rise to judgment from the 
tomb. 



There, there is never enmity, nor rage, 
Nor poisoned calumny, nor envy's breath, 



1 "In the Scandinavian mythology, Bragi presided over elo- 
quence and poetry. His wife, named Idnna, had the care 01 
certain apples which the gods tasted when they found them- 
Belves grow old, and which had the power of instantly restor- 
ing 'hem to yonth."— Mullet's Xorihern Anth/'iilies. p. 95. 



Nor shivering poverty, nor decrepit age, 
Nor loss of vigor, nor the narrow death, 

Nor idiot laughter, nor the tears men weep, 
Nor painful exile from one's native soil, 

Nor sin, nor pain, nor weariness, nor sleep, 
Nor lust of riches, nor the poor man's toil. 



There, never falls the rain-cloud as with us, 
Nor gapes the earth with the dry sum- 
mer's thirst, 
But liquid streams, wondrously curious, 
Out of the ground with fresh, fair bubblings 
burst. 
Sea-cold and bright the pleasant waters 
glide 
Over the soil and through the shady 
bowers ; 
Flowers fling their colored radiance o'er the 
tide, 
And the white streams their crystals o'er 



Such was the land for man's enjoyment 
made 
When from this troubled life his soul doth 
wend: 
Such was the land through which entranced 
we strayed, 
For fifteen days, nor reached its bound 
nor end. 
Onward we wandered in a blissful dream, 
Nor thought of food, nor needed earthly 
rest ; 
Until at length we reached a mighty stream, 
Whose broad, bright waves flowed from 
the east to west. 



We were about to cross its placid tide, 

When lo ! an angel on our vision broke. 
Clothed in white, upon the further side 
He stood majestic, and thus sweetly 
spoke : 
"Father, return ! thy mission now is o'er; 
God, who did call thee here, now bids 
thee go. 
Return in peace unto thy native shore, 
And tell the mighty secrets thou dost 
know. 



314 



POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTIli. 



" In after years, in God's own fitting time, 
This pleasant land again shall reappear ; 
And other men shall preach the truths sub- 
lime 
To the benighted people dwelling here. 
But ere that hour, this land shall all be 
made, 
For mortal man, a fitting, natural home, 
Then shall the giant mountain fling its shade, 
And the strong rock stem the white tor- 
rent's foam. 



" Seek thy own isle — Christ's newly-bought 
domain, 
Which Nature with an emerald pencil 
paints ; 
Such as it is, long, long shall it remain, 
The school of truth, the college of the 
saints, 
The student's bower, the hermit's calm re- 
treat, 
The stranger's home, the hospitable hearth, 
The shrine to. which shall wander pilgrim 
feet 
From all the neighboring nations of the 
earth. 



" But in the end upon that land shall fall 

A bitter scourge, a lasting flood of tears, 
When ruthless tyranny shall level all 

The pious trophies of its earlier years : 
Then shall this land prove thy poor country's 
friend, 

And shine, a second Eden, in the west ; 
Then shall this shore its friendly arms ex- 
tend, 

And clasp the outcast exile to its breast." 

xv. 
He ceased, and vanished from our dazzled 

sight, 
While harps and sacred hymns rang sweetly 

o'er : 
For us, again we winged our homeward 
flight 
O'er the great ocean to our native shore ; 
And as a proof of God's protecting hand, 
And of the wondrous tidings that we 
bear, 
The fragrant perfume of that heavenly land 
Clings to the very garments that we wear.' 



tfptttfjS mft g/pijc*. 



THE PILLAR TOWERS OF IRELAND. 



The pillar towers of Ireland, how wondrous- 
ly they stand 

By the lakes and rushing rivers through the 
valleys of our land ; 

In mystic file, through the isle, they lift their 
heads sublime, 

These gray old pillar temples — these con- 
querors of time ! 



Beside these gray old pillars, how perishing 
and weak 



The Roman's arch of triumph, and the tem- 
ple of the Greek, 

And the gold domes of Byzantium, and the 
pointed Gothic spires, 

All are gone, one by one, but the temples of 



The column, with its capital, is level with 

the dust, 
And the proud halls of the mighty, and the 

calm homes of the just ; 
For the proudest works of man, as certainly 

but slower, 
Pass like the grass at the sharp scythe of 

the mower ! 



^ip^pliil 1 








POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. 



But the grass grows again when in majesty 
and mirth, 

On the wing of the Spring, comes the god- 
dess of the Earth : 

But for man in this world no spring-tide e'er 
returns 

To the labors of his hands or the ashes of 
his urns ! 



Two favorites hath Time — the pyramids of 
Nile, 

And the old mystic temples of our own dear 
isle ; 

As the breeze o'er the seas, where the hal- 
cyon has its nest, 

Thus Time o'er Egypt's tombs and the tem- 
ples of the West ! 



The names of their founders have vanished 

in the gloom, 
Like the dry branch in the fire or the body 

ir the tomb ; 
But to-day, in the ray, their shadows still 

they cast — 
These temples of forgotten gods — these relics 

of the past ! 



Around these walls have wandered the Bri- 
ton and the Dane — 

The captives of Armorica, the cavaliers of 
Spain — 

Phoenician and Milesian, and the plundering 
Norman Peers-- 

And the swordsmen of brave Brian, and the 
chiefs of later years ! 



How many different rites have these gray 

old temples known ! 
To the mind what dreams are written in 

these chronicles of stone ! 
What terror and what error, what gleams 

of love and truth, 
Have flashed from these walls since the 

world was in its youth ! 



Here blazed the sacred fire, and when the 

sun was gone, 
As a star from afar to the traveller it shone ; 
And the warm blood of the victim have 

these gray old temples drunk, 
And the death-song of the Druid and the 

matin of the Monk. 



Here was placed the holy chalice that held 
the sacred wine, 

And the gold cross from the altar, and the 
relics from the shrine, 

And the mitre, shining brighter with its dia- 
monds than the East, 

And the crozier of the Pontiff and the vest- 
ments of the Priest ! 



Where blazed the sacred fire, rung out the 
vesper-bell, — 

Where the fugitive found shelter, became 
the hermit's cell ; 

And hope hung out its symbol to the inno- 
cent and good, 

For the Cross o'er the moss of the pointed 
summit stood ! 



There may it stand forever, while this sym- 
bol doth impart 



lonous vision, or one 



To the mind 

proud throb to the heart ; 
While the breast needeth rest may these 

gray old temples last, 
Bright prophets of the future, as preachers 

of the past ! 



THE LAY MISSIONER. 

Had I a wish — 'twere this : that Heaven 

would make 
My heart as strong to imitate as love, 
That half its weakness it could leave, and 

take 
Some spirit's strength, by which to soar 

above ; 
A lordly eagle mated with a dove — 



POEMS OF DENIS F. McCAKTHY. 



Strong will and warm affection, these be 
mine : 

Without the one no dreams has fancy 
wove, 

Without the other soon these dreams de- 
cline, 
Weak children of the heart, which fade away 
and pine ! 

Strong have I been in love, if not in will ; 
Affections crowd and people all the past, 
And now, even now, they come and haunt 

me still, 
Even from the graves where once my 

hopes were cast. 
But not with spectral features, all aghast, 
Come they to fright me ; no, with smiles 

and tears, 
And winding arms, and breasts that beat 

as fast 
As once they beat in boyhood's opening 

years, 
Come the departed shades, whose steps my 

rapt soul hears. 

Youth has passed by, its first warm flush 

is o'er, 
And now 'tis nearly noon ; yet unsubdued 
My heart still kneels and worships, as of 

yore, 
Those twin-fair shapes, the Beautiful and 

Good! 
Valley and mountain, sky and stream and 

wood, 
And that fair miracle, the human face, 
And human nature in its sunniest mood, 
Freed from the shade of all things low 
and base, — 
These in my heart still hold their old accus- 
tomed place. 

'Tis not with pride, but gratitude, I tell 
How beats my heart with all its youthful 

glow, 
How one kind act doth make my bosom 

swell, 
And ilown my cheeks the sweet, warm, 

glad tears flow. 
Enough of self, enough of me you know, 
Kind reader; but if thou would st further 

wend 



With me this wilderness of weak words 
through, 

Let me depict, before the journey end, 
One whom methinks thou'lt love — my bro- 
ther and my friend. 

Ah! wondrous is the lot of him who 

stands 
A Christian Priest, within a Christian 

fane, 
And binds with pure and consecrated 

hands, 
Round earth and heaven, a festal, flowery 

chain ; 
Even as between the blue arch and the main 
A circling western ring of golden light 
Weds the two worlds, or as the sunny rain 
Of April makes the cloud and clay unite, 
Thus links the Priest of God the dark world 

and the bright. 

All are not priests, yet priestly duties may, 
And should be all men's: as a common 

sight 
We view the brightness of a summer's day, 
And think 'tis but its duty to be bright ; 
But should a genial beam of warming 

light 
Suddenly break from out a wintry sky, 
With gratitude we own a new delight, 
Quick beats the heart, and brighter beams 

the eye, 
And as a boon we hail the splendor from on 

high. 

'Tis so with men, with those of them at 

least 
Whose hearts by icy doubts are chilled and 

torn: 
They think the virtues of a Christian 

Priest 
Something professional, put on and worn 
Even as the vestments of a Sabbath morn ; 
But should a friend or act or teach as he, 
Then is the mind of all its doubting? 

shorn, 
The unexpected goodness that they see 
Takes root, and bears its fruit, as uncoerced 

and free ! 

One have I known, and haply yet I know, 
A youth by baser passions undefiled, 




wwm i i 1 1 



POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. 



317 



Lit by the light of genius, and the glow 
Which real feeling leaves where once it 

smiled; 
Firm as a man, yet tender as a child ; 
Armed at all points by fantasy and 

thought, 
To face the true or soar amid the wild ; 
By love and labor, as a good man ought, 
Heady to pay the price by which dear truth 

is bought ! 

"Tis not with cold advice or stern rebuke, 
With formal precept, or with face demure, 
But with the unconscious eloquence of 

look, 
Where shines the heart, so loving and so 

pure: 
'Tis these, with constant goodness, that 

allure 
All hearts to love and imitate his worth. 
Beside him weaker natures feel secure, 
Even as the flower beside the oak peeps 

forth, 
Safe, though the rain descends, and blows 

the biting North ! 

Such is my friend, and such I fain would be, 
Mild, thoughtful, modest, faithful, loving, 

Correct, not cold, nor uncontrolled, though 

free, 
But proof to all the lures that round us 

play- 
Even as the sun, that on his azure way 
Moveth with steady pace and lofty mien 
(Though blushing clouds, like sirens, woo 

his stay), 
Higher and higher through the pure serene, 
Till comes the calm of eve and wraps him 

from the scene. 



SUMMER LONGINGS. 



Ah ! my heart is weary waiting, 
Waiting for the May — 
Waiting for the pleasant rambles, 
Where the fragrant hawthorn brambles, 



With the woodbine alternating, 

Scent the dewy way : — 
Ah ! my heart is weary waiting, 

Waiting for the May. 

Ah ! my heart is sick with longing, 
Longing for the May — 
Longing to escape from study, 
To the young face fair and ruddy, 
And the thousand charms belonging 

To the summer's day : — 
Ah ! my heai-t is sick with longing 
Longing for the May. 

Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing, 
Sighing for the May — 
Sighing for their sure returning, 
When the summer beams are burning, 
Hopes and flowers that dead or dying 

All the winter lay : — 
Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing, 
Sighing for the May. 

Ah ! my heart is pained with throbbing, 
Throbbing for the May — 
Throbbing for the sea-side billows, 
Or the water-wooing willows ; 

Where in laughing and in sobbing 

Glide the streams away : — 
Ah ! my heart, my heart is' throbbing, 
Throbbing for the May. 

Waiting sad, dejected, weary, 
Waiting for the May — 
Spring goes by with wasted warnings, 
Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings ; 
Summer comes, yet dark and dreary 

Life still ebbs away : — 

Man is ever weary, weary, 

Waiting for the May ! ' 



A LAMENT. 

Ts esta Llama ee deeata, 
Ya cadnca este ediflcio, 
Ta se desmaya esta Flor. 

Thb dream is over, 
The vision has flown ; 



: by the late lamented Earl of ] 



318 



POEMS OF DENIS P. McCAItTHY. 



Dead leaves are lying 
Where roses have blown ; 
Withered and strown 
Are the hopes I cherished, — 
All hath perished 
But grief alone. 

JMy heart was a garden 
Where fresh leaves grew ; 
Flowers there were many, 
And weeds a few ; 
Cold winds blew, 
And the frosts came thither, 
For flowers wiK wither, 
And weeds renew ! 

Youth's bright palace 
Is overthrown, 
With its diamond sceptre 
And golden throne ; 
As a time-worn stone 
Its turrets are humbled, — 
All hath crumbled 
But grief alone ! 

Whither, oh ! whither 

Have fled away 

The dreams and hopes 

'Of ray early day? 

Ruined and gray 

Are the towers I builded ; 

And the beams that gilded — 

Ah ! where are they ? 

Once this world 
Was fresh and bright, 
With its golden noon 
And its starry night ; 
Glad and light, 
By mountain and river, 
Have I blessed the Giver 
With hushed delight. 

These were the days 

'Of story and song, 

When Hope had a meaning 

And Faith was strong. 

" Life will be long, 

And lit with love's gleamings: 

Such were my dreamings, 

But, ah ! how wrong 1 



Youth's illusions, 
One by one, 

Have passed like clouds 
That the sun looked on. 
While morning shone, 
How purple their friuges I 
How ashy their tinges 
When that was gone ! 

Darkness that cometh 
Ere morn has fled — 
Boughs that wither 
Ere fruits are shed — 
Death-bells instead 
Of a bridal's pealings — 
Such are my feelings, 
Since hope is dead ! 

Sad is the knowledge 

That cometh with years — 

Bitter the tree 

That is watered with tears ; 

Truth appears, 

With his wise predictions, 

Then vanish the 'fictions 

Of boyhood's years. 

As fire-flies fade 
When the nights are damp- 
As meteors are quenched 
In a stagnant swamp — 
Thus Charlemagne's camp, 
Where the paladins rally, 
And the Diamond Valley, 
And Wonderful Lamp, 

And all the wonders 
Of Ganges and Nile, 
And Haroun's rambles, 
And Crusoe's isle, 
And Princes who smile 
On the Genii's daughters 
'Neath the Orient waters 
Full many a mile, 

And all that the pen 

Of Fancy can write, 

Must vanish 

In manhood's misty light — 

Squire and knight, 

And damosel's glances, 



POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. 



319 



Sunny romances 
So pure and bright ! 

These have vanished, 
And what remains ? 
Life's budding garlands 
Have turned to chains — 
Its beams and rains 
Feed but docks and thistles, 
And sorrow whistles 
O'er desert plains ! 

The dove will fly 
From a ruined nest — 
Love will not dwell 
In a troubled breast — 
The heart has no zest 
To sweeten life's dolor — 
If Love, the Consoler, 
Be not its guest ! 

The dream is over, 
The vision has flown ; 
Dead leaves are lying 
Where roses have blown; 
Withered and strown 
Are the hopes I cherished — 
All hath perished 
But grief alone ! * 



THE CLAN OF MacCAURA.* 

O ! height are the names of the chieftains 

and sages, 
That shine like the stars through the dark 

ness of ages, 
Whose deeds are inscribed on the pages of 

story, 
There forever to live in the sunshine of 

glory- 
Heroes of history, phantoms of fable, 
Charlemagne's champions, and Arthur 

Round Table— 
O ! but they all a new lustre could borrow 
From the glory that hangs round the name 

of MacCaura ! 



1 Set to music by the Earl of Belfast. Translated into 
French by M. le Chevalier de Chatelain. 

1 MacCarthy— MacCartha (the correct way of spelling the 
name in Roman characters) is pronounced in Irish, MacCaura 
the th or dotted t having in that language the soft sound of h 



Thy waves, Manzanares, wash many a shrine, 

And proud are the castles that frown o'er 
the Rhine, 

And stately the mansions whose pinnacles 
glance 

Through the elms of old England and vine- 
yards of France ; 

Many have fallen, and many will fall — 

Good men and brave men have dwelt in 
them all — 

But as good and as bra-ve men, in gladness 
and sorrow, 

Have dwelt in the halls of the princely Mac- 
Caura ! 

Montmorency, Medina, unheard was thy rank 
By the dark-eyed Iberian and light-hearted 

Frank, 
And your ancestors wandered, obscure and 

unknown, 
By the smooth Guadalquiver, and sunny 

Garonne — 
Ere Venice had wedded the sea, or enrolled 
The name of a Doge in her proud " Book oi 

Gold ;" s 
When her glory was all to come on like the 

morrow, 
There were chieftains and kings of the clan 

of MacCaura ! 

Proud should thy heart beat, descendant ol 

Heber,* 
Lofty thy head as the shrines of the Guebre. 
Like them are the halls of thy forefathers 

shattered, 
Like theirs is the wealth of thy palaces 

scattered. 
Their fire is extinguished — your flag long 

unfurled — 
But how proud were ye both in the dawn of 

the world ! 
And should both fade away, oh ! what heart 

would not sorrow 
O'er the towers of the Guebre — the name ol 

MacCaura ! 



» Montmorency and Medina are respectively at the head of 
the French and Spanish nobility.— The first Doge elected in 
Venice in 709. Voltaire considered the families whose names 
were inscribed in The Book of Gold at the founding of the 
city, as entitled to the first place in European nobility.— 
Burke's Commoners. 

* The MacCarthy's trace their origin to Heber Pionn, the 
eldest son of Milesius, King of Spain, through Oilioll Olimn. 
King of Munster, in the third century.— Shrines of the Guebre 
—The Round Towehs. 



320 



POEMS OF DEXIS F. McCARTIIY. 



What, a moment of glory to cherish and 
dream on, 

When far o'er the sea came the ships of 
Heremon, 

With Heber, and Ir, and the Spanish patri- 
cians, 

To free Inis-Fail from the spells of magicians ! 

Oh ! reason had these for their quaking and 
pallor, 

For what magic can equal the strong sword 
of valor? 

Better than spells are the axe and the arrow, 

When wielded or flung by the hand of Mac- 
Caura. 1 

From that hour a MacCaura had reigned in 

his pride 
O'er Desmond's green valleys and rivers so 

wide, 
From thy waters, Lismore, to the torrents 

and rills 
That are leaping forever down Brandon's 

brown hills ; 
The billows of Bantry, the meadows of Bear, 
The wilds of Evaugh, and the groves of 

Glancare — 
From the Shannon's soft shores to the banks 

of the Barrow — 
All owned the proud sway of the princely 

MacCaura ! 

In the house of M ; odchuart, 2 by princes sur- 
rounded, 

How noble his step when the trumpet was 
sounded, 

And his clansmen bore proudly his broad 
shield before him, 

And hung it on high in that bright palace 
o'er him ; 

On the left of the monarch the chieftain was 
seated, 

And happy was he whom his proud glances 
greeted, 



s also the sons of Milesius.— The peo- 
on of the country when the Milesians 
Invaded it, were the Tuatha de Danaans, so called, says Keat- 
ing, " from their skill in necromancy, of whom Borne were bo 
famous as to be called gods." 

" The house of Miodchiiart was an apartment in the palace 
of Tara, where the provincial kings met for the despatch of 
public business, at the Fcis (pronounced as one syllable), or 
parliament or Tara, which assembled then once in every three 
years— the ceremony aliuded to is described in detail by Keat- 
ing. See Petrie's "Tara." 



' Mid monarchs and chiefs at the great Feis 
of Tara— 

Oh ! none was to rival the princely Mac- 
Caura ! 

To the halls of the Red Branch, when con- 
quest was o'er, 
The champions their rich spoils of victory 

bore, 8 
And the sword of the Briton, the shield of 

the Dane, 
Flashed bright as the sun on the walls of 

Eamhain — 
There Dathy and Niall bore trophies of war, 
From the peaks of the Alps and the waves 

of the Loire ; 4 
But no knight ever bore from the hills of 

Ivaragh 
The breastplate or axe of a conquered Mac 

Caura ! 

In chasing the red-deer what step was the 



In singing the love-song what roiuo va« "he 
sweetest, — 

What breast was the foremost in couiung 
the danger — 

What door was the widest to shelter the 
stranger — 

In friendship the truest, in battle the bravest, 

In revel the gayest, in council the gravest — 

A hunter to-day, and a victor to-morrow ? 

Oh ! who but a chief of the princely Mac- 
Caura ! 

But oh ! proud MacCaura, what anguish to 
touch on 

The one fatal stain of thy princely es- 
cutcheon — 

In thy story's bright garden the one spot of 
bleakness — 

Through ages of valor the one hour of weak- 
ness! 

Thou, the heir of a thousand chiefs, sceptred 
and royal — 

1 The houseuof the Red Branch was situated in the stately 
palace of Eamhain (or Emania), in Ulster ; here the spoils taken 
from the foreign foe were hung up, and the chieftains who 
won them were called Knights of the Red Branch. 

* Dathy was killed at the Alps by lightning, and Niall (his 
uncle and predecessor), by an arrow fired from the opposite 
side of the river by one of his own generals as he sal in his 
tent on the banks of the Loire in France. 



POEMS OF DENIS P. MCCARTHY. 



321 



Thou to kneel to the Norman and swear to 

be loyal ! 
Oh! a long night of horror, and outrage, 

and sorrow 
Have we -wept for thy treason, base Diar- 

mid MacCaura ! 

O ! why, ere you thus to the foreigner pan- 
dered, 

Did you not bravely call round your Emer- 
ald standard 

The chiefs of your house of Lough Lene and 
Clan Awley, 

O'Donogh, MacPatrick, O'Driscoll, Mac- 
Awley, 

O'Sullivan More, from the towers of Dun- 
kerron, 

And O'Mahon, the chieftain of green Ardin- 
teran ? 

As the sling sends the stone, or the bent 
bow the arrow, 

Every chief would have come at the call of 
MacCaura ! 

Soon, soon didst thou pay for that error in 
woe — ' 

Thy life to the Butler— thy crown to the foe — 

Thy castles dismantled and strewn on the 
sod— 

And the homes of the weak, and the abbeys 
of God ! 

No more in thy halls is ths wayfarer fed — 

Nor the rich mead sent round, nor the soft 
heather spread — 

Nor the clairsech's sweet notes — now in 
mirth, now in sorrow — 

All, all have gone by but the name of Mac- 
Caura ! 

MacCaura, the pride of thy house is gone by, 

But its name cannot fade, and its fame can- 
not die — 

Though the Arigideen, with its silver waves 
shine 2 

Around no green forests or castles of thine — 



1 Diarmid MacCarthy, King of Desmond, and Daniel O'Bri- 
en, K'ng of Thomond. were the first of the Irish princes to 
swear fealty to Henry II. * 

8 The Arigideen means the little silver stream, and Alio, 
the echoing: river. By these rivers and m^v others in the 

•sdby the MaCm-thy*. 



Though the shrines that you founded bo in 
cense doth hallow, 

Nor hymns float in peace down the echoing 
Alio— 2 

One treasure thou keepest — one hope for the 
morrow — 

True hearts yet beat of the clan of Mac- 
Caura ! . 



DEVOTION. 



When I wander by the ocean, 
When I view its wild commotion, 
Then the spirit of devotion 

Cometh near ; 
But it fills my brain and bosom, 

Like a fear ! 

I fear its booming thunder, 
Its terror and its wonder, 
Its icy waves that sunder 

Heart from heart ; 
And the white host that lies under 
Makes me start ! 

Its clashing and its clangor 
Proclaim the Godhead's angei" — 
I shudder, and with languor 

Tarn away ; 
No joyance fills my bosom 

For that day ! 

When I wander through the valleys, 
When the evening zephyr dallies 
And the light expiring rallies, 

In the stream, 
That spirit comes and glads me 

Like a dream. 

The blue smoke upward curling, 
The silver streamlet purling, 
The meadow wild-flowers furling 

Their leaflets to repose — 
All woo me from the world 

And its woes ! 



The evening bell that bringeth 
A truce to toil outringeth, — 
No sweetest bird that singeth 
Half so sweet. 



POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. 



Not even the lark that springeth 
From my feet ! 

Then see I God beside me, 

The sheltering trees that hide me, 

The mountains that divide me 

From the sea, — 
All prove how kind a Father 

He can be. 

Beneath the sweet moon shining 
The cattle are reclining, 
No murmur of repining 

Soundeth sad ; 
All feel the present Godhead ! 

And are glad ! 

With mute, unvoiced confessings, 
To the Giver of all blessings 
I kneel, and with caressings 

Press the sod, 
And thank my Lord and Father, 

And my God ! 



OVER THE SEA. 



Sab eyes, why are ye steadfastly gazing 

Over the sea ? 
Is it the flock of the Ocean-shepherd grazing 

Like lambs on the lea ? — 
Is it the dawn on the orient billows blazing 

Allureth ye ? 

Sad heart, why art thou tremblingly beating, 

What troubleth thee ? 
There where the waves from the fathomless 
water come greeting, 

Wild with their glee ! 
Or rush from the rocks like a routed battal- 
ion retreating, 
Over the sea ! 
Sad feet, why are ye constantly straying 

Down by the sea ? 
There where the winds in the sandy harbor 
are playing, 

Childlike and free, 
What is the charm, whose potent enchant- 
ment obeying, 

There chaineth ye ? 



Oh ! sweet is the dawn and bright are the 
colors it glows in ! 
Yet not to me ! 
To the beauty of God's bright creation my 
bosom is frozen ! 

Naught can I see ! 
Since she has departed — the dear one, the 
loved one, the chosen, 
Over the sea ! 

Pleasant it was when the billows did strug- 
gle and wrestle, 

Pleasant to see ! 
Pleasant to climb the tall cliffs where the 
sea-birds nestle, 

When near to thee I 
Naught can I now behold but the track of 
thy vessel 

Over the sea ! 

Long as a Lapland winter, whioh no pleasant 
sunlight cheereth, 

The summer shall be : 
Vainly shall autumn be gay, in the rich 
robes it weareth, 
Vainly for me ! 
No joy can I feel till the prow of thy vessel 
appeareth 

Over the sea ! 

Sweeter than summer, which tenderly, moth- 
erly bringeth 

Flowers to the bee 1 
Sweeter than autumn, which bounteously, 
lovingly flingeth 

Fruits on the tree ! 
Shall be winter, when homeward returning, 
thy swift vessel wingeth 
Over the sea ! 



HOME PREFERENCE. 

Oh ! had I the wings of a bird, 
To soar through the blue, sunny sky, 

By what breeze would my pinions be stirred? 
To what beautiful land would I fly ? 

Would the gorgeous East allure, 
With the light of its golden eves, 



POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. 



Where the tall, green palm over isles of balm, 
Waves with its feathery leaves ? 
Ah! no! no! no! 

I heed not its tempting glare ; 
In vain would I roam from my island 
home, 
For skies more fair. 

Would I seek a southern sea, 

Italia's shore beside, 
Where the clustering grape from tree to tree 

Hangs in its rosy pride ? 
My truant heart, be still, 

For I long have sighed to stray 
Through the myrtle flowers of fair Italy's 
bowers, 
By the shores of its southern bay. 
But no ! no ! no ! 
i Though bright be its sparkling seas, 

I never would roam from my island 
home 
For charms like these ! 

Would I seek that land so bright, 
Where the Spanish maiden roves, 

With a heart of love and an eye of light, 
Through her native citron groves ? 

Oh ! sweet would it be to rest 
In the midst of the olive vales, 

Where the orange blooms, and the rose per- 



The breath of the balmy gales ! 
But no ! no ! no ! 

Though sweet be its wooing air! 
I never would roam from my island 

home 
To scenes, though fair ! 

Would I pass from pole to pole ? 

Would I seek the western skies, 
Where the giant rivers roll, 

And the mighty mountains rise ? 
Or those treacherous isles that lie 

In the midst of the sunny deeps, 
Where the cocoa stands on the glistening 



4nd the dread tornado sweeps ? 
Ah ! no ! no ! no ! 

They have no charms for me ; 
I never would roam from my island 
home, 
Though poor it be J 



Poor! — oh ! 'tis rich in all 

That flows from Nature's hand — | 

Rich in the emerald wall 

That guards its emerald land ! 
Are Italy's fields more green ? 

Do they teem with a richer store 
Than the bright, green breast of the isle of 
the West, 
And its wild, luxuriant shore ? 
Ah ! no ! no ! no ! 

Upon it Heaven doth smile. 
Oh ! I never would roam from my na- 
tive home, 
My own dear isle ! ' 



THE FIRESIDE. 



I hate tasted all life's pleasures, I have 

snatched at all its joys, 
The dance's merry measures and the revel's 

festive noise ; 
Though wit flashed bright the livelong night, 

and flowed the ruby tide, 
I sighed for thee, I sighed for thee, my own 
! 



In boyhood's dreams I wandered far across 
the ocean's breast, 

In search of some bright earthly star, some 
happy isle of rest ; 

I little thought the bliss I sought, in roam- 
ing far and wide, 

Was sweetly centred all in thee, my own 
~~ ! 



How sweet to turn at evening's close from 
all our cares away, 

And end in calm, serene repose, the swiftly 
passing day ! 

The pleasant books, the smiling looks of sis- 
ter or of bride, 

AH fairy ground doth make around one'B 
own fireside ! 

" My Lord" would never condescend to honor 

my poor hearth ; 
" His grace" would scorn a host or friend of 

mere plebeian birth ; 



Translated intr French byM. le Chevalier de Chatelain. 



324 



POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTH*. 



And yet the lords of human kind, whom 

man has deified, 
Forever meet in converse sweet around my 

fireside ! 

The poet sings his deathless songs, the sage 

his lore repeats, 
The patriot tells his country's wrongs, the 

chief his warlike feats ; 
Though far away may be their clay, and 

gone their earthly pride, 
Each godlike mind in books enshrined still 

haunts my fireside. 

Oh ! let me glance a moment through the 
coining crowd of years, 

Their triumphs or their failures, their sun- 
shine or their tears, 

How poor or great may be my fate, I care 
not what betide, 

So peace and love but hallow thee, my own 
fireside ! 

Still let me hold the vision close, and closer 

to my sight ; 
Still, still in hopes elysian, let my spirit wing 

its flight ; 
Still let me dream, life's shadowy stream 

may yield from out its tide, 
A mind at rest, a tranquil breast, a quiet 



THE VALE OF SHANGANAH. 

When I have knelt in the temple of Duty, 
Worshipping honor, and valor, and beauty — 
When, like a brave man, in fearless resistance, 
I have fought the good fight on the field of 

existence ; 
When a home I have won in the conflict of 

labor, 
With truth for my armor and thought for 

my sabre, 
Be that home a calm home where my old 

age may rally, 
A home full of peace in this sweet, pleasant 

valley ! 



Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shan- 
ganah ! 

Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shan- 
ganah ! 

May the accents of love, like the drop- 
pings of manna, 

Fall sweet on my heart in the Vale of 
Shanganah ! 

Fair is this isle — this dear child of the ocean, 
Nurtured with more than a mother's de- 
votion ; 
For, see ! in what rich robes has Nature 

arrayed her, 
From the waves of the west to the cliffs of 

Ben Edar," 
By Glengariff 's lone islets — Killarney's weird 

water, 
So lovely was each, that then matchless I 

thought her ; 
But I feel, as I stray through each sweet- 
scented alley, 
Less wild but more fair is this soft, veidant 
valley ! 
Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shan- 
ganah ! 
Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shan- 
ganah ! 
No wide-spreading prairie — no Indian 

savannah, 
So dear to the eye as the Vale of Shan- 
ganah ! 



How pleased, how delighted, the rapt eye 

reposes 
On the picture of beauty this valley discloses, 
From that margin of silver whereon the blue 

wa-ter 
Doth glance like the eyes of the ocean-foam's 

daughter ! 
To where, with the red clouds of morning 

combining, 
The tall "Golden Spears'" o'er the moun- 
tains are shining, 
With the hue of their heather, as sunlight 

advances, 
Like purple flags furled round the staffs of 

the lances ! 



i Ben Bdar is the Irish name of the Hill of Howth. 

1 The Sugar Loaf Mountains, Co. Wicklow, according to. 

me antiquaries, were called in Irish " The Golden Spears." 



POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. 



Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shan- 

ganah ! 
Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shan- 

ganah ! 
No lands far away by the calm Susque- 

hannah, 
So tranquil and fair as the Vale of Shan- 

ganah ! 

But here, even here, the lone heart were be- 
nighted, 

No beauty could reach it, if love did not 
light it ; 

'Tis this makes the earth, oh ! what mortal 
can doubt it? 

A garden with it, but a desert without it ! 

With the loved one, whose feelings instinct- 
ively teach her 

That goodness of heart makes the beauty of 



How glad through this vale would I float 

down life's river, 
Enjoying God's bounty, and blessing the 
Giver ! 
Sweetest of vales, is the Vale of Shan- 

ganah ! 
Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shan- 

ganah ! 
May the accents of love, like the drop- 
pings of manna, 
Fall sweet on my heart in the Vale of 
Shanajanah ! ' 



THE WINDOW. 



At my window, late and early, 

In the sunshine and the rain, 
When the jocund beams of morning 
Come to wake me from my napping, 
With their golden fingers tapping 

At my window-pane : 
From my troubled slumbers flitting — 

From my dreamings fond and vain 
From the fever intermitting, 
Up I start, and take my sitting 

At my window-pane : — 
Through the morning, through the noontide 



T/u Vols of Slianganah (or more usually called Shanganasrh 
J8 to the south of KiHiney Hill, near Dalkey, Co. Dublin." 



Fettered by a diamond chain, 
Through the early hours of evening, 
When the stars begin to tremble, 
As their shining ranks assemble 

O'er the azure plain : 
When the thousand lamps are blazing 

Through the street and lane — 
Mimic stars of man's upraising — 
Still I linger, fondly gazing 

From my window-pane ! 

For, amid the crowds, slow passing, 

Surging like the main, 
Like a sunbeam among shadows, 
Through the storm-swept cloudy masses, 
Sometimes one bright being passes 

' Neath my window-pane : 
Thus a moment's joy I borrow 

From a day of pain. 
See, she comes ! but, bitter sorrow ! 
Not until the slow to-morrow 

Will she come again. 



God bade the Sun with golden step sublime 

Advance ! 
He whispered in the listening ear of Time, 

Advance ! 
He bade the guiding spirits of the Stars, 
With lightning speed, in silver-shining cars, 
Along the bright floor of his azure hall 

Advance ! 
Suns, Stars, and Time, obey the voice, and all 

Advance ! 
The River, at its bubbling fountain, cries 

Advance ! 
The Clouds proclaim, like heralds through 
the skies, 

Advance ! 
Throughout the world the mighty Master's 

laws 
Allow not one brief moment's idle pause. 



J TMb poem has been admirably translated into French 
verse by M. le Chevalier de Chatelain. See the interesting 
specimens of his " Beautes de la Poesie Anglaise," appended 
to the third edition, of his " Fables de Gay," London, 1S57. 



POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. 



The Earth is full of life, the swelling seeds 

Advance ! 
And summer hours, like flowery harnessed 
steeds, 

Advance ! 

To Man's most wondrous hand the same 
voice cried, 

Advance ! 
Go clear the woods, and o'er the bounding tide 

Advance ! 
Go draw the marble from its secret bed, 
And make the cedar bend its giant head ; 
Let domes and columns through the won- 
dering air 

Advance ! 
The world, O Man ! is thine. But wouldst 
thou share — 

Advance ! 

Unto the soul of man the same voice spoke, 

Advance ! 
From out the chaos, thunder-like, it broke, 

"Advance !' 
" Go track the comet in its wheeling race, 
And drag the lightning from its hiding-place ; 
From out the night of ignorance and fears, 

Advance ! 
For love and hope, borne by the coming years, 

Advance !" 

All heard, and some obeyed the great com- 
mand, 

Advance ! 
It passed along from listening land to land, 

Advance ! 
The strong grew stronger, and the -weak 

grew strong, 

As passed the war-cry of the World along — 

Awake, ye nations, know your powers and 

rights — 

Advance ! 

Through hope and work to freedom's new 
delights — 

Advance ! 

Knowledge came down and waved her steady 
torch, 

Advance ! 
Sages proclaimed 'neath many a marble porch, 

Advance ! 



As rapid lightning leaps from peak to peak, 
The Gaul, the Goth, the Roman, and the 

Greek, 
The painted Briton caught the winged word, 

Advance ! 

And earth grew young, and carolled as a bird, 
Advance ! 

Oh ! Ireland — oh ! my country, wilt thou not 

Advance ? 
Wilt thou not share the world's progressive 
lot? 

Advance ! 
Must seasons change, and countless years 

roll on, 

And thou remain a darksome Ajalon, 1 
And never see the crescent moon of hope 

Advance ? 
' Tis time thine heart and eye had wider scopt,, 

Advance ! 

Dear brothers, wake ! look up ! be firm ! be 
strong ! 

Advance ! 
From out the starless night of fraud and wrong 

Advance ! 
The chains have fallen from off thy wasted 

hands, 
And every man a seeming freedman stands. 
But ah ! 'tis in the soul that freedom dwells : 

Advance ! 
Proclaim that there thou wearest no manacles* 

Advance ! 

Advance ! thou must advance or perish now : 

Advance ! 
Advance ! Why live with wasted heart and 
brow? 

Advance ! 
Advance ! or sink at once into the grave ; 
Be bravely free, or artfully a slave ! 
Why fret thy master, if thou mus>. have one ? 

Advance ! 
" Advance three steps, the glor ous work is 
done" — ' 

Advance ! 

The first is Courage — 'tis a giant stride ! 
Advance ! 



1 "Move not. O Sun. towards Gabaon, nor thon, O Moon, 
toward the Valley of Ajalon."— Josue. ix. 12. 
> "TroiB pas en avant, e'eet fait."— Victor Hugo. 



POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. 



32T 



With bounding step np freedom's rugged side 

Advance ! 
Knowledge will lead you to the dazzling 

heights ; 
Tolerance wiil teach and guard your bro- 
ther's rights. 
Faint not ! for thee a pitying Future waits : 

Advance ! 
Be wise, be just : with will as fixed as Fate's, 

Advance ! 



THE EMIGRANTS. 



PART I. 

" Oh ! come, my mother, come away, across 

the sea-green water ; 
Oh ! come with me, and come with him, the 

husband of thy daughter ; 
Oh ! come with us, and come with them, the 

sister and the brother, 
Who, prattling, clime thine aged knees, and 

call thy daughter — mother. 

" Oh ! come, and leave this land of death — 
this isle of desolation — 

This speck upon the sunbright face of God's 
sublime creation ; 

Since now o'er all our fatal stars the most 
malign hath risen, 

When labor seeks the poorhouse, and inno- 
cence the prison. 

" ' Tis true, o'er all the sun-brown fields the 
husky wheat is bending ; 

•Tis true, God's blessed hand at last a better 
time is sending ; 

' Tis true, the island's aged face looks hap- 
pier and younger, 

But in the best of days we've known the 
sickness and the hunger. 

" When health breathed out in every breeze, 
too oft we've known the fever — 

Too oft, my mother, have we felt the hand 
of the bereaver ; 

Too well remember many a time the mourn- 
ful task that brought him, 

When freshness fanned the summer air, and 
cooled the glow of autumn. 



" But then the trial, though severe, still tes- 
tified our patience, 

We bowed with mingled hope and fear to 
God's wise dispensations ; 

We felt the gloomiest time was both a pro- 
mise and a warning, 

Just as the darkest hour of night is herald 
of the morning. 

" But now through all the black expanse no 
hopeful morning breaketh — 

No bird of promise in our hearts the glad- 
some song awaketh ; 

No far-off gleams of good light up the hills 
of expectation — 

Naught but the gloom that might precede 
the world's annihilation. 

" So, mother, turn thine aged feet, and let 

our children lead 'em 
Down to the ship that wafts us soon to plenty 

and to freedom ; 
Forgetting naught of all the past, yet all the 

past forgiving : 
Come, let us leave the dying land, and fly 

unto the living. 

" They tell us, they who read and think of 
Ireland's ancient story, 

How once its Emerald Flag flung out a sun- 
burst's fleeting glory ; 

Oh ! if that sun will pierce no more the dark 
clouds that efface it, 

Fly where the rising stars of heaven com- 
mingle to replace it. 

" So, come, my mother, come away, across 

the sea-green water ; 
Oh ! come with us, and come with him, the 

husband of thy daughter ; 
Oh ! come with us, and come with them, the 

sister and the brother, 
Who, prattling, climb thine aged knees, and 

call thy daughter — mother." 



PART II. 

" Ah ! go, my children, go away — obey this 

inspiration ; 
Go with the mantling hopes of health and 

youthful expectation ; 



POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. 



Go, clear the forests, climb the hills, and 
plough the expectant prairies ; 

Go, in the sacred name of God, and the 
blessed Virgin Mary's. 

" But though I feel how sharp the pang from 
thee anil thine to sever, 

To look upon these darling ones the last time 
and forever; 

Yet in this sad and dark old land, by deso- 
lation haunted, 

My heart has struck its roots too deep ever 
to be transplanted. 

"A thousand fibres still have life, although 

the trunk is dying— 
They twine around the yet green grave 

where thy father's bones are lying : 
Ah ! from that sad and sweet embrace no 

soil on earth can loose 'em, 
Though golden harvests gleam on its breast, 

and golden sands in its bosom. 

" Others are twined around the stone, where 

ivy blossoms smother 
The crumbling lines that trace thy names, 

my father and my mother ! 
God's blessing be upon their souls — God 

grant, my old heart prayeth, 
Their names be written in the Book whose 

writing ne'er decayeth. 

" Alas ! my prayers would never warm with- 
in those great cold buildings, 

Those grand cathedral churches, with their 
marbles and their gildings ; 

Far fitter than the proudest dome that would 
hang in splendor o'er me, 

Is the simple chapel's whitewashed walls, 
where my people knelt before me. 

" No doubt it is a glorious laud to which you 

now are going, 
Like that which God bestowed of old, with 

milk and honey flowing ; 
But where are the blessed saints of God, 

whose lives of his Law remind me, 
Like Patrick, Brigid, and Columbkille, in the 

land I'd leave behind me V 

"So leave me here, my children, with my 
old ways and old notions — 



Leave me here in peace, with my memoriei 

and devotions : 
Leave me in sight of your father's grave ; and 

as the heavens allied us, 
Let not, since we were joined in life, even 

the grave divide us. 

" There's not a week but I can hear how you 

prosper better and better, 
For the mighty fire-ships over the sea will 

bring the expected letter ; 
And if I need aught for my simple wants, 

my food or my winter firing, 
Thou'lt gladly spare from thy growing store, 

a little for my requiring 

" So, go, my children, go away — obey this 

inspiration ; 
Go with the mantling hopes of health and 

youthful expectation ; 
Go clear the forests, climb the hills, and 

plough the expectant prairies ; 
Go, in the sacred name of God, and the 

blessed Virgin Mary's." 



TO ETHNA. 



Da lei si move ciascun mio pensii 
Perche Tanima ha prcso qualitate 
Di sua bells persona. 



First loved, last loved, best loved of all 

I've loved ! 
Ethna, my boyhood's dream, my man- 
hood's light, — 
Pure angel spirit, in whose light I've 

moved 
Full many a year along life's darksome 

night ! 
Thou wert my star, serenely shining 

bright 
Beyond youth's passing clouds and mists 

obscure ; 
Thou wert the power that kept my spirit 

white, 
My soul unsoiled, my heart untouched and 

pure. 
Thine was the light from Heaven that ever 

must endure 



POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. 



Purest, and best, and brightest, no mishap, 
No chance or change can break our mu- 
tual ties ; 
My heart lies spread before thee like a map, 
Here roll the tides, and there the moun- 
tains rise ; 
Here dangers frown, and there hope's 

streamlet flies, 

And golden promontories cleave the main ; 

And I have looked into thy lustrous eyes, 

And saw the thought thou couldst not all 

restrain, 

A sweet, soft, sympathetic pity for my pain ! 

Dearest and best, I dedicate to thee, 
From this hour forth, my hopes, my 

dreams, my cares, 
All that I am, and all I e'er may be, — 
Youth's clustering locks, and age's thin, 

white hairs ; 
Thou by my side, fair vision, unawares — 
Sweet saint — shalt guard me as with an- 
gel's wings ; 
To thee shall rise the morning's hopeful 

prayers, 
The evening hymns, the thoughts that mid- 
night brings, 
The worship that like fire out of tlfre warm 
heart springs. 

Thou wilt be with me through the strag- 
gling day, 
Thou wilt be with me through the pen- 
sive night, 
Thou wilt be with me, though far, far away 
Some sad mischance may snatch you from 

my sight. 
In grief, in pain, in gladness, in delight, 
In every thought thy form shall bear a part, 
In every dream thy memory shall unite, 
Bride of my soul, and partner of my heart ! 
Till fram the dreadful bow flieth the fatal dart ! 

Am I deceived ? and do I pine and faint 
For worth that only dwells in heaven 

above ? 
Ah ! if thou'rt not the Ethna that I paint, 
Then thou art not the Ethna that I love : 
If thou art not as gentle as the dove, 
Avid good as thou art beautiful, the tooth 
Of venomed serpents will not deadlier 

prove 



Than that dark revelation : but, in sooth, 
Ethna, I wrong thee, dearest, for thy name 
is Truth. 1 



WINGS FOR HOME. 

My heart hath taken wings for home ; 

Away ! away ! it cannot stay. 
My heart hath taken wings for home, 
Nor all that's best of Greece or Rome 

Can stop its sway. 
My heart hath taken wings for home, 

Away ! 

My heart hath taken wings for home, 
O Swallow, Swallow, lead the way ! 

O, little bird, fly north with me, 

I have a home beside the sea 

Where thou canst sing and play ; — 

My heart hath taken wings for home, 
Away ! 

My heart hath taken wings for home, 
But thou, O little bird, wilt stay ; 

Thou hast thy little ones with thee here, 

Thy mate floats with thee through the clear 
Italian depths of day ; — 

My heart hath taken wings for home, 
Away! 

My heart hath taken wings for home, 

Away ! away ! it cannot stay. 
One spring from Brunelleschi's dome, 
To Venice by the Adrian foam, 
Then westward be my way. — 
My heart hath taken wings for home, 
Away! 



TO AN INFANT. 



Leap, little feet ; leap up, oh leap ! 

With bounding life, be bold and brave ; 
The time may come when ye must creep, 
Even to a grave ! 

1 Mthnu, or Aithna, in Irish signifies Truth. The mother of 
St. Columbkille bore this beautiful name. See "Adamnan's 
Life of St. Columba," edited by the Eev. Dr. Reeves, for tho 
Irish Archaeological and Celtic Society, p. 8. 



•MO 



POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. 



Laugh, little lips, in dreamless sleep, 

Sweet eyes, smile sweet, the angels hear ; 
The time may come when ye must weep, 
No angel near ! 

Look, little soul, from out thy gate ; 

Look out and seek thy one true friend: 
Ah me ! to think that thou must wait 
Till life shall end ! 

Beat, little heart, within thy breast ;' 

Beat fond and fast, oh flesh-caged dove, 
And when the bars are broke, thy nest 
Be heaven above ! 



HOME-SICKNESS. 

TO THE BAT OF DUBLIN. 

My native bay, for many a year 
I've loved thee with a trembling fear, 
Lest thou, though dear, and very dear, 

And beauteous as a vision, 
Shouldst have some rival far away — 
Some matchless wonder of a bay 
Whose sparkling waters ever play 

'Neath azure skies elysian. 

ii. 
' TIs love, me thought, blind love that pours 
The rippling magic round these shores — 
For whatsoever love adores 

Becomes what love desireth : 
'Tis ignorance of aught beside 
That throws enchantment o'er the tide 
And makes my heart respond Avith pride 

To what mine eye admireth. 
in. 
And thus, unto our mutual loss, 
Whene'er I paced the sloping moss 
Of green Killiney, or across 

The intervening waters — 
Up Howth's brown sides my feet would wend, 
To see thy sinuous bosom bend, 
Or view thine outstretched arms extend 

To clasp thine islet daughters : 

IV. 

Then would this spectre of my fear 
Beside me stand— how calm and clear 



Slept underneath the green waves, near 

The tide-worn rocks' recesses ; 
Or when they woke and leaped from land, 
Like startled sea-nymphs, hand in hand 
Seeking the southern silver strand 
With floating emerald tresses : 



It lay o'er all, a moral mist ; 

Even on the hills, when evening kissed 

The granite peaks to amethyst, 

I felt its fatal shadow : 
It darkened o'er the brightest rills, 
•It lowered upon the sunniest hills, 
And hid the winged song that fills 

The moorland and the meadow. 



But now that I have been to view 
All even nature's self can do, 
And from Gaeta's arch of blue 

Borne many a fond memento ; 
And from each fair and famous scene, 
Where beauty is, and power hath been, 
Along the golden shores between 

Misenum and Sorrento : 



I can look proudly in thy face, 

Fair daughter of a hardier race, 

And feel thy winning, well-known grace, 

Without my old misgiving ; 
And as I kneei upon thy strand, 
And kiss thy once unvalued hand, 
Proclaim earth holds no lovelier land, 

Where life is worth the living. 



YOUTH AND AGE. 



To give the blossom and the fruit 

The soft warm air that wraps them round, 

Oh ! think how long the toilsome root 
Must live and labor 'neath the ground. 

ii. 
To send the river on its way, 

With ever deepening strength and force, 
Oh ! think how long 'twas let to play, 

A happy streamlet, near its source. 



POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. 



331 



SUNNY DAYS IN WINTER. 



Summer is a glorious season — 

Warm, and bright, and pleasant ; 

But the past is not a reason 
To despise the present. 

So while health can climb the mountain, 
And the log lights up the hall, 

There are sunny days in winter, after all ! 



Spring, no doubt, hath faded from us, 

Maiden-like in charms ; 
Summer, too, with all her promise, 

Perished in our arms. 
But the memory of the vanished, 

Whom our hearts recall, 
Maketh sunny days in winter, after all ! 



True, there's scarce a flower that bloometh, 

All the best are dead ; 
But the wall-flower still perfumeth 

Yonder garden-bed. 
And the arbutus pearl-blossomed 

Hangs its coral ball — 
There are sunny days in winter, after all ! 



Summer trees are pretty — very, 

And I love them well ; 
But this holly's glistening berry, 

None of those excel. 
While the fir can warm the landscape, 

And the ivy clothes the wall, 
There are sunny days in winter, after all ! 



Sunny hours in every season 

Wait the inuocent — 
Those who taste with love and reason 

What their God hath sent. 
Those who neither soar too highly, 

Nor too lowly fall, 
Feel the sunny days of winter, after all I 



Then, although our darling treasures 
Vanish from the heart ; 



Then, although our once-loved pleasures 

One by one. depart ; 
Though the tomb looms in the distance, 

And the mourning pall, 
There is sunshine and no winter, after all ! 



DUTY. 

As the hardy oat is growing, 

Howsoe'er the wind may blow ; 
As the untired stream is flowing, 

Whether shines the sun or no :— 
Thus, though storm-winds rage about it,. 

Should the strong plant, Duty, grow ; 
Thus, with beauty or without it, 

Should the stream of being flow. 



ORDER. 



A word went forth upon Creation's day, 
At which th-3 void infinitude was filled 
With life and light. Where horrid Chaos 

reigned 
In dark confusion, orbed Order rose, 
And with the silent majesty of strength 
Took up the sceptre of a thousand worlds, 
And ruled by right divine the radiant realms. 
Where all was blank vacuity, or worse, 
Monstrous Disorder — fair material Form 
Rose wondering from the vacant wastes of 



And as each world beheld its sister world, 
So calm, so beautiful, so full of light, 
Walking in gladnees through the halls of 

heaven, 
Like a fair daughter in her father's house — 
Its heart yearned towards her, and its trem- 
bling feet 
Turned in pursuit ; and its great, eager eyes 
Followed her ever down the eternal day. 
Round golden suns the silver planets rolled, 
Round silver planets circled moons of pearl, 
Round pearly moons, the roses of the sky 
(Eve-crimsoned clouds) stood wondering, till 

their cheeks 
Grew pale with passion, and then dark with 

pain ; 
As sank the moons behind the unheeding 
hills ! 



POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. 



THE FIRST OF THE AXGELS. 



Hush ! hush ! through the azure expanse of 

the sky 
Comes a low, gentle sound, 'twixt a laugh 

and a sigh ; 
And I rise from my writing, and look up 

on high, 
And I kneel — for the first of God's angels is 

nigh! 



Oh! how to describe what my rapt eyes 

descry ! 
For the blue of the sky is the blue of his eye ; 
And the white clouds, whose whiteness the 

snow-flakes outvie, 
Are the luminous pinions on which he doth 



And his garments of gold gleam at times 

like the pyre 
Of the west, when the sun in a blaze doth 

expire ; 
Now tinged like the orange — now flaming 

with fire ! 
Half the crimson of roses and purple of Tyre. 



And his voice, on whose accents the angels 

have hung — 
He himself a bright angel, immortal and 

young — 
Scatters melody sweeter the green buds 

among, 
Thau the poet e'er wrote, or the nightingale 

sung. 



It tomes on the balm-bearing breath of the 

breeze, 
And the odors that later will gladden the 

bees, 
With a life and a freshness united to these, 
From the rippling of waters and rustling of 

trees. 



Like a swan to its young o'er the glass of a 
pond, 



So to earth comes the angel, as graceful and 
fond ; 

While a blight beam of sunshine — his mag- 
ical wand — 

Strikes the fields at my feet, and the moun- 
tains beyond. 



They waken — they start into life at a bound — 
Flowers climb the tall hillocks, and cover 

the ground ; 
With a nimbus of glory the mountains are 

crowned, 
As their rivulets rush to the ocean profound. 

VIII. 

There is life on the earth — there is calm on 
the sea, 

And the rough waves are smoothed, and the 
frozen are free ; 

And they gambol and ramble like boys in 
their glee, 

Round the shell-shining strand on the grass- 
bearing lea. 



There is love for the young — there is life for 

the old, 
And wealth for the needy, and heat for the 

cold; 
For the dew scatters nightly its diamonds 

untold, 
And the snowdrop its silver — the crocus ita 

gold! 



God — whose goodness and greatness we bless 

and adore — 
Be Thou praised for this angel — the first of 

the four — 
To whose charge Thou hast given the world's 

uttermost shore, 
To guide it, and guard it, till time is no more t 



SPIRIT VOICES. 



Tiiere are voices, spirit voices, sweetly 

sounding everywhere, 
At whose coming earth rejoices, and the 

echoing realms of air. 



POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. 



333 



And their joy and jubilation pierce the near 

and reach the far — 
From the rapid world's gyration to the 

twinkling of the star. 



One, a potent voice uplifting, stops the white 
cloud on its way, 

As it drives with driftless drifting o'er the 
vacant vault of day, 

And in sounds of soft upbraiding calls it 
down the void inane 

To the gilding and the shading of the moun- 
tain and the plain. 



Airy offspring of the fountains, to thy des- 
tined duty sail — 

Seek it on the proudest mountains, seek it in 
the humblest vale ; 

Howsoever high thou fliest, howso deep it 
bids thee go, 

Be a beacon to the highest and a blessing to 
the low. 



Thus reflecting heaven's pure splendor, and 

concealing ruined clay, 
Up to God thy spirit render, and dissolving, 

pass away. 



And with fond solicitation, speaks another 

to the streams — 
Leave your airy isolation, quit the cloudy 

land of dreams, 
Break the lonely peak's attraction, burst the 

solemn, silent glen, 
Seek the living world of action, and the busy 

haunts of men. 



Turn the mill-wheel with thy fingers, turn 
the steam- wheel with thy breath, 

With thy tide that never lingers, save the 
dying fields from death ; 

Let the swiftness of thy currents bear to man 
the freight-filled ship, 

And the crystal of thy torrents bring re- 
freshment to his lip. 



When the sad earth, broken-hearted, hath 
not even a tear to shed, 

And her very soul seems parted for her chil- 
dren lying dead, 

Send the streams with warmer pulses through 
that frozen fount of fears, 

And the sorrow that convulses, soothe and 
soften down to tears. 



Bear the sunshine and the shadow, bear the 
rain-drop and the snow, 

Bear the night-dew to the meadow, and to 
hope the promised bow, 

Bear the moon, a moving mirror, for her 
angel face and form, 

And to guilt and wilful error, bear the light- 
ning and the storm. 



When thou thus hast done thy duty on the 
earth and o'er the sea, 

Bearing many a beam of beauty, ever bet- 
tering what must be, 



And when thou, O rapid river, thy eternal 

home dost seek — 
When no more the willows quiver but to 

touch thy passing cheek — 
When the groves no longer greet thee and 

the shores no longer kiss — 
Let infinitude come meet thee on the verge 

of the abyss. 



Other voices seek to win us — low, sugges- 
tive, like the rest — 

But the sweetest is within us, in the stillness 
of the breast ; 

Be it ours, with fond desiring, the same har- 
vest to produce 

As the cloud in its aspiring, and the river in 
its use. 



TRUTH IN SONG. 



I cannot sing, I cannot write, 

To show that I can write and sing- 



334 



POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. 



f cannot for a cause bo slight 

Command my Ariel's dainty wing: 

Not for the dreams of cultured youth, 
Nor praises of the lettered throng. 
Oh, no ! I string the pearls of song 

But only on the chords of truth : 



And when the precious pearls are strung, 
What are their value but to deck 

Some kindred forehead, or be hung 
Around the whiteness of some neck? 

Some neck ? sonic forehead ? — ah ! but one 
Would win or haply wear the chain, 
And now the fragments of the strain 

Lie broken round me — She is gone ! 



Gone from my home some weary hours, 

But never, never from my heart — 
Gone, like the memory of the showers 

To flowers long-drooping, love, thou art: 
O, truest friend — O, best of wives — 

Come soon: my world, my queen, my 
crown, 

Then shall the pearls run ringing down 
The love-twined chords of both our lives. 



ALL FOOL'S DAY. 



The sun called a beautiful beam that was 
playing 
At the door of his golden-walled palace on 
high ; 
And he bade him be off without any delay- 
ing. 
To a fast-fleeting cloud on the verge of the 
sky: 
" You will give him this letter," said roguish 
Apollo, 
(While a sly little twinkle contracted his 
eye), 
" With my royal regards ; and be sure that 
you follow 
Whatsoever his highness may send in re- 
ply." 



The beam heard the order, but being no 
novice, 
Took it coolly, of course — nor in this was 
he wrong ; 
But was forced (being a clerk in Apollo's 
post-office) 
To declare (what a bounce!) that he 
wouldn't be long ; 
So he went home and dressed — gave his 
beard an elision — 
Put his scarlet coat on, nicely edged with 
gold lace ; 
And thus being equipped, with a postman's 
precision, 
He prepared to set out on his nebulous race. 



Off he posted at last, but just outside the 
portals 
He lit on earth's high-soaring bird in the 
dark ; l 
So he tarried a little, like many frail mortals, 
Who, when sent on an errand, first go on 
a lark. 
But he broke from the bird — reached the 
cloud in a minute — 
Gave the letter and all, as Apollo ordained ; 
But the sun's correspondent, on looking 
within it, 
Found " Send the fool farther," was all it 
contained. 



The cloud, who was up to all mystification, 
Quite a humorist, saw the intent of the 
sun; 
And was ever too airy — though lofty hL 
station — 
To spoil the least taste of the prospect ol 
fun ; 
So he hemmed and he hawed — took a roll o) 
pure vapor, 
Which the light from the beam made as 
bright as could be, 
(Like a sheet of the whitest cream golden- 
edged paper), 
And wrote a few words, superscribed " Tr 
the Sea." 



> " Hark I hark I the lark at heaven's gate sings ," &c. 



POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. 



335 



"My dear Beam," or "dear Ray," ('twas 
thus coolly he hailed him), 
" Pray take down to Neptune this letter 
from me, 
For the person you seek — though I lately re- 
galed him — 
Now tries a new airing, and dwells by the 
sea." 
So our Mercury hastened away through the 
ether, 
The bright face of Thetis to gladden and 
greet ; 
And he plunged in the water a few feet be- 
neath her, 
Just to get a sly peep at her beautiful feet. 



To Neptune the letter was brought for in- 
spection — 
But the god, though a deep one, was still 
rather green ; 
So Le took a few moments of steady reflection, 
Ere he wholly made out what the missive 
could mean : 
But the date (it was "April the first") came to 
save it 
From all fear of mistake ; so he took pen 
in hand, 
And, transcribing the cruel entreaty, he 
gave it 
To our travelled-tired friend, and said 
" Bring it to Land." 



To Land went the Sunbeam, which scarcely 
received it, 
When it sent it post-haste back again to 
the Sea ; 
The Sea's hypocritical calmness deceived it, 
And sent it once more to the Land on the 
lea; 
From the Land to the Lake — from the Lakes 
to the Fountains — 
From the Fountains and Streams to the 
Hills' azure crest, 
•Till, at last, a tall Peak on the top of the 
mountains, 
Sent it back to the Cloud in the now 
golden west. 



He saw the whole trick, by the way he was 
greeted 
By the Sun's laughing face, which all pur- 
ple appears ; 
Then amused, yet annoyed at the way he 
was treated, 
He first laughed at the joke, and then burst 
into tears. 
It is thus at this day of mistakes and sur- 
prises, 
When fools write on foolscap, and wear 
it the while, 
This gay saturnalia forever arises 

'Mid the shower and sunshine, the tear 
and the smile. 



THE BIRTH OF THE SPRING. 



Kathleen, my darling, I've dreamt such 

a dream ! 
' Tis as hopeful and bright as the Summer's 
first beam: 

1 dreamt that the World, like yourself 

darling dear, 

Had presented a son to the happy New 
Year ! ' 

Like yourself, too, the poor mother suffered 
awhile, 

But like thine was the joy, at her baby's 
first smile, 

When the tender nurse, Nature, quick hast- 
ened to fling 

Her sun-mantle round, as she fondled Thb 
Spring. 



O Kathleen, 'twas strange how the elements 

all, 
With their friendly regards, condescended 

to call : 
The rough rains of Winter like summer-dews 

fell, 
And the North-wind said, zephyr-like — " Is 

the World well ?" 
And the streams ran quick-sparkling to tell 

o'er the Earth 
God's goodness to man in this mystical birth, 



I 



336 



POEMS OF DENIS F. McCARTHY. 



For a Son of this World, and an heir to the 

King 
Who rules over man, is this beautiful Spring ! 



O Kathleen, methought, when the bright 

babe was born, 
More lovely than morning appeared the 

bright morn ; 
The birds sang more sweetly, the grass 

greener grew, 
And with buds and with blossoms the old 

trees looked new ; 
And methought when the Priest of the Uni- 
verse came — 
The Sun, in his vestments of glory and 

flame — 
He was seen the warm rain-drops of April 

to fling 
On the brow of the babe, and baptize him 

The Spring ! 



O Kathleen, dear Kathleen ! what treasures 

are piled 
In the mines of the Past tor this wonderful 

Child ! 
The lore of the sages, the lays of the bards, 
Like a primer, the eye of this infant regards ; 
All the dearly-bought knowledge that cost 

life and limb, 
Without price, without peril, are offered to 

him; 
And the blithe bee of Progress concealeth its 

sting, 
As it offers its sweets to this beautiful 

Spring ) 



O Kathleen, they tell us of wonderful things, 
Of speed that surpasseth the fairy's fleet 

wings ; 
How the lands of the world in communion 

are brought, 



And the slow march of speech is as rapid as 

thought. 
Think, think what an heir-loom the great 

world will be, 
With this wonderful wire 'neath the Earth 

and the Sea ; 
When the snows and the sunshine together 

shall bring 
All the wealth of the world to the feet of 

the Spring. 



O Kathleen, but think of the birth-gifts of 

love, 
That The Master who lives in the Great 

House above, 
Prepares for the poor child that's born on 

His land — 
Dear God! they're the sweet flowers that 

fall from Thy hand — 
The crocus, the primrose, the violet given 
Awhile, to make Earth the reflection oi 

Heaven ; 
The brightness and lightness that round tho 

world wing 
Are Thine, and are ours too, through thee, 

happy Spring 1 



O Kathleen, dear Kathleen ! that dream is 

gone by, 
And I wake once again, but, thank God I 

thou art by ; 
And the land that we love looks as bright 

in the beam, 
Just as if my sweet dream was not all out a 

dream : 
The spring-tide of Nature its blessing im- 
parts — 
Let the spring-tide of Hope send its pulse 

through our hearts ; 
Let us feel 'tis a mother, to whose breast we 

cling, 
And a brother we hail, when we welcome 

the Spring. 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAK 



GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 



FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. 



ghe lag of the Ictl. 

Vivos voco. Mortnos plango. Fulgura frango. 

PREPARATION FOR POUNDING THE BELL. 

Firstly wall'd within the soil 

Stands the firebaked mould of clay. 
Courage, comrades ! Now for toil ! 
For we cast the Bell to-day. 
Sweat must trickle now 
Down the burning brow, 
If the work may boast of beauty: 
Still 't's Heaven must bless our duty. 

A woid of earnest exhortation 

The serious task before us needs : 
Beguiled by cheerful conversation, 

How much more lightly toil proceeds ! 
Then let us here, with best endeavor, 

Weigh well what these our labors mean: 
Contempt awaits that artist ever 

Who plods through all, the mere machine; 
But Thought makes Man to dust superior, 

And he alone is thoughtful-soul'd 
Who ponders in his heart's interior 

Whatever shape his hand may mould. 

Gather first the pine-tree wood, 

Only be it wholly dry, 
That the flame, with subtle flood, 
Through the furnace-chink may fly. 
Now the brass is in, 
Add the alloy of tin, 
That the ingredients may, while warm, 
Take the essential lluid form. 



OFFICES OF THE BELL 

What here in caverns by the power 

Of fire our mastering fingers frame, 
Hereafter from the belfry tower 

Will vindicate its makers' aim; 
'Twill speak to Mau with voice unfailing 

In latest years of after-days, 
Will echo back the mourner's wailing, 

Or move the heart to prayer and praise : 
In many a varying cadence ringing, 

The willing Bell will publish far 
The fitful changes hourly springing 

Beneath Man's ever-shifting star. 

Surface-bubbles glittering palely 
Show the mixture floweth well : 
Mingle now the quick alkali ; 
That will help to found the Bell. 
Purified from scum 
Must the mass become, 
That the tone, escaping free, 
Clear and deep and full may be. 



THE BIRTH -DAT BELL. 

For, with a peal of joyous clangor 
It hails the infant boy, that in 

The soft embrace of sleep and languor 
Life's tiring travel doth begin. 

His brighter lot anil darker doom 

Lie shrouded in the Future's womb. 

Watch'd over by his tender mother, 

His golden mornings chase each other; 

Swift summers fly like javelins by. 



338 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



The woman's yoke the stripling spurneth ; 

He rushes wildly forth to roam 
The wide world over, and returneth 

When years have wheel'd — a stranger — 
home. 
Array'd in Beauty's magic might, 

A vision from the Heaven that's o'er him, 
With conscious blush and eye of light, 

The bashful virgin stands before him. 
Then flies the youth his wonted sports, 

For in his heart a nameless feeling 
Is born ; the lonesome dell he courts, 

And down his cheek the tears are stealing. 
He hangs upon her silver tone, 

He tracks with joy her very shadow, 
And culls, to deck his lovely one, 

The brightest flowers that gem the meadow. 
Oh, golden time of Love's devotion, 

When tenderest hopes and thrills have 
birth, 
When hearts are drunk with blest emotion 

And Heaven itself shines out on Earth 1 
Were thy sweet season ever vernal ! 
Were early Youth and Love eternal ! 

!Ha ! the pipes appear embrown'd, 

So this little staff I lower : 
Twill be time, I wis, to found, 
If the fluid glaze it o'er. 

Courage, comrades ! Move ! 
Quick the mixture prove. 
If the soft but well unite 
With the rigid, all is right. 



THE WEDDING -BELL. 

For, where the Strong protects the Tender, 
Where Might and Mildness join, they render 

A sweet result, content insuring ; 
Let those then prove who make election, 
That heart meets heart in blent affection, 

Else Bliss is brief, and Grief enduring ! 
In the bride's rich ringlets brightly 

Shines the flowery coronal, 
As the Bell, now pealing lightly, 

Bids her to the festal hall. 
Fairest scene of Man's elysian 

World ! thou closest life's short May : 



With the zone and veil ' the Vision 

Melts in mist and fades for aye ! 

The rapture has fled, 

Still the love has not perish'd ; 
The blossom is dead, 

But the fruit must be cherish'd. 
The husband must out, 
He must mix in the rout, 
In the struggle and strife 
And the clangor of life, 
Must join in its jangle, 
Must wrestle and wrangle, 
O'erreaching, outrunning, 
By force and by cunning, 
That Fortune propitious 
May smile on his wishes. 
Then riches flow in to his uttermost wishesr; 
His warehouses glitter with all that is pre- 
cious ; 

The storehouse, the mansion, 
Soon call for expansion ; 
And busied within is 
The orderly matron, 
The little ones' mother," 
Who is everywhere seen 
As she rules like a queen, 
The instructress of maruens 
And curber of boys ; 
And seldom she lingers 
In plying her fingers, 
But doubles the gains 
By her prudence and pains, 
And winds round the spindle the threads at 

her leisure, 
And tills odoriferous coffers with treasure, 
And store th her shining receptacles full 
Of snowy- white linen and pale-colored wool, 
And blends with the Useful the Brilliant and 

Pleasing, 
And toils without ceasing. 
And the father counts his possessions now, 
As he paces his house's commanding terrace, 
And he looks around with a satisfied brow 



i Mit dem OUrtel, mit dem Schkier, 
Reiezt der schOne Wahn entzwei. 
Schiller here alludes to that custom of antiquity according to 
which the bridegroom unloosed the zone and removed the reil 
of his betrothed. Among the ancientB, to unbind the cental, 
and to espouse, were expressions meaning the Mime thing. 
Hence the well-known line of Catullas— 

Quod possit zonam solvere virgineain. 
» Here, and In a few subsequent pawages, Schiller orait* 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



On his pillar-like trees in rows unending, 
And his barns and rooms that are filling 
amain, 
And his granaries under their burden bend- 
ing. 
And his wavy fields of golden grail, 
And speaks, with exultation, 
" Fast as the Earth's foundation, 
Against all ill secure, 
Long shall my house endure ! " 
But ah ! with Destiny and Power 
No human paction lasts an hour, 
And Ruin rides a restless courser. 



■Good ! The chasm is guarded well ; 

Now, my men ! commence to found ; 
Yet, before ye run the Beix, 

Breathe a prayer to Heaven around ! 
Wrench the stopple-cork ! 
God protect our work ! 
Smoking to the bow it flies, 
While the flames around it rise. 



THE FIRE-BELL. 

Fire works for good with noble force 
So long as Man controls its course ; 
And all he rears of strong or slight 
Is debtor to this heavejnly might. 
But dreadful is this heavenly might 
When, bursting forth in dead of night, 
Unloosed and raging, wide and wild 
It ranges, Nature's chainless child ! 
Woe ! when oversweeping bar, 

With a fury naught can stand, 
Through the stifled streets afar 

Rolls the monstrous volume-brand ! 
For the elements ever war 

With the works of human hand. 
From the cloud 

Blessings gush ; 
From the cloud 

Torrents rush ; 
From the cloud alike 
Come the bolts that strike. 
Laeum peals from lofty steeple 
Rouse the people 1 
Red, like blood, 

Heaven is flashing ! 
How it shames the daylight's flood ! 



Hark ! what crashing 
Down the streets ! 



Skyward flares the flame in columns I 

Through the tent-like lines of street* 

Rapidly as wind it fleets ! 

Now the white air, waxing hotter, 

Glows a furnace — pillars totter — 

Rafters crackle — casements rattle — 

Mothers fly — 

Children cry — 

Under ruins whimper cattle. 

All is horror, noise, affright ! 

Bright as noontide glares the night ! 
Swung from hand to hand with zeal along 
By the throng, 

Speeds the pail. In bow-like form 
Sprays the hissing water-shower, 
But the madly-howling storm 

Aids the flames with wrathful power ; 
Round the shrivell'd fruit they curl : 
Grappling with the granary-stores, 
Now they blaze through roof and floors, 
And with upward-dragging whirl, 
Even as though they strove to bear 
Earth herself aloft in air, 
Shoot into the vaulted Void, 
Giant-vast ! 
Hope is past : 

Man submits to God's decree, 
And, all stunn'd and silently, 
Sees his earthly All destroy'd ! 



Burn'd a void 

Is the Dwelling : 

Winter winds its wailing dirge i 

In the skeleton window-pits 

Horror sits, 

And exposed to Heaven's wide woof 

Lies the roof. 



One glance only 

On the lonely 

Sepulchre of all his wealth below 

Doth the man bestow ; 

Then turns to tread the world's broad path. 

It matters not what wreck the wrath 

Of fire hath bi ought on house and land, 
One treasured blessing still he hath, 

His Best Beloved beside him stand ! 






POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MAXGAK 



Happily at length, and rightly, 
Poth it till the loamy frame : 
Think ye will it come forth brightly ? 
Will it yet fulfil our aim ? 
If we fail to found ? 
If the mould rebound ? 
Ah 1 perchance, when least we deem, 
Fortune may defeat our scheme. 

In hope our work we now confide 

To Earth's obscure but hallow'd bosom ; 
Therein the sower, too, doth hide 

The seed he hopes shall one day blossom. 
If bounteous Heaven shall so decide. 
But holier, dearer Seed than this 

We bury oft, with tears, in Earth, 
And trust that from the Grave's abyss 

'Twill bloom forth yet in brighter birth. 



THE PASSING BELL. 
Hollowly and slowly, 

By the Bell's disastrous tongue, 
Is the melancholy 

Knell of death and burial rung. 
Heavily those muffled accents mourn 
Some one journeying to the last dark bourne. 

Ah ! it is the spouse, the dear one 1 
Ah ! it is that faithful mother ! 
She it is that thus is borne, 
Sadly borne and rudely torn 
By the sable Prince of Spectres 
From her fondest of protectors — 
From the children forced to flee 
Whom she bore him lovingly, 
Whom she gazed on day and night 
Witli a mother's deep delight. 
Ah ! the house's bands, that held 

Each to each, are doom'd to sever 
She that there as mother dwell'd 

Roams the Phantom-land forever. 
Truest friend and best arranger ! 

Thou art gone, and gone for aye ; 
And a loveless hireling stranger 
O'er thine orphan'd ones will sway. 

Till the Bell shall cool and harden, 
Labor's heat a while may cease ; 

Like the wild-bird in the garden, 
Each may play or take his ease. 



Soon as twinkles Hesper, 
Soon as chimes the Vesper, 

All the workman's toils are o'er, 

But the master frets the more. 

Wandering through the lonely greenwood 

Blithely hies the merry rover 

Forward towards his humble hoveL 

Bleating sheep are homeward wending, 

And the herds of 

Sleek and broad-brow'd cattle come with 

Lowing warning 

Each to fill its stall till morning. 

Townward rumbling 

Reels the wagon, 

Corn-o'erladen, 

On whose sheaves 

Shine the leaves 

Of the Garland fair, 

While the youthful band of reapers 

To the dance repair. 

Street and market now grow stiller : 

Round the social hearth assembling, 

Gayly crowd the house's inmates, 

As the town-gate closes creaking ; 

And the earth is 

Robed in sable, 

But the night, which wakes affright 

In the souls of conscience-haunted men, 

Troubles not the tranquil denizen, 

For he knows the eye of Law unsleeping 

Watch is keeping. 

Blessed Order ! heaven-descended 

Maiden ! Early did she band 
Like with like, in union blended, 

Social cities early plann'd ; 
She the fierce barbarian brought 

From his forest-haunts of wildness; 
She the peasant's hovel sought, 

And redeem'd his mind to mildness, 
And first wove that ever-dearest band, 
Fond attachment to our Fatherland ! 

Thousand hands in ceaseless motion 

All in mutual aid unite, 
Every art with warm devotion 

Eager to reveal its might. 
All are bonded in affection ; 

Each, rejoicing in his sphere, 
Safe in Liberty's protection, 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



Laughs to scorn the scoffer's sneer. 
Toil is polish'd Man's vocation : 

Praises are the meed of Skill ; 
Kings may vaunt their crown and station, 

We wiil vaunt our Labor stilly 

Mildest Quiet ! 

Sweetest Concord ! 

Gently, gently 

Hover over this our town ! 

Ne'er may that dark day be witness'd 

When the dread exterminators 

Through our vales shall rush, destroying, 

When that azure 

Softly painted by the rays of 

Sunset fair 
Shall (oh, horror !) with the blaze of 

Burning towns and hamlets glare ! 



Now, companions, break the mould, 
For its end and use have ceased : 
On the structure 'twill unfold 
Soul and sight alike shall feast. 
Swing the hammer ! Swing ! 
1111 the covering spring. 
Shivered first the mould must lie 
Ere the Bell may mount on high. 



The Master's hand, what time he wills, 

May break the mould ; but woe to ye 
If, spreading far in fiery rills, 

The glowing ore itself shall free ! 
With roar as when deep thunder crashes 
It blindly blasts the house to ashes, 
And as from Hell's abysmal deep 
The death-tide rolls with lava-sweep. 
Where lawless force is awless master 

Stands naught of noble, naught sublime ! 

Where Freedom comes achieved by Crime 
Her fruits are tumult and disaster. 



THE TOCSIN, OR ALARM-BELL. 

Woe ! when in cities smouldering long 
The pent-up train explodes at length ! 

Woe ! when a vast and senseless throng 
Shake off their chains by desperate 
strength ! 



Then to the*bellrope rushes Riot, 

And rings, and sounds the alarm afar, 

And, destined but for tones of quiet, 
The Tocsin peals To War ! Tc War 

" Equality and Liberty !" 

They shout : the rabble seize on swords ; 
And streets and halls' fill rapidly 

With cutthroat gangs and ruffian hordes. 
Then women change to wild hyenas, 

And mingle cruelty with jest, 
And o'er their prostrate foe are seen, as 

With panther-teeth they tear his breast. 
All holy shrines go trampled under : 

The Wise and Good in horror flee ; 
Life's shamefaced bands are ripped asunder, 

And cloakless Riot wantons free. 
The lion roused by shout of stranger, 

The tiger's talons, these appal- 
But worse, and charged with deadlier 
danger, 

Is reckless Man in Frenzy's thrall ! 
Woe, woe to those who attempt illuming 

Eternal blindness by the rays 
Of Truth ! — they flame abroad, consuming 

Surrounding nations in their blaze ! 
God hath given my soul delight ! 

Glancing like a star of gold, 
From its shell, all pure and bright, 

Comes the metal kernel roll'd. 

Brim 3 and rim, it gleams 

As when sunlight beams ; 

And the armorial shield and crest 

Tell that Art hath wrought its best. 

In, in ! our task is done — 
In, in, companions every one ! 
By what name shall we now baptize the Bell? 
Concordia will become it well : 
For oft in concord shall its pealing loud 
Assemble many a gay and many a solemn 
crowd. 



THE DESTINATION OF THE BELL. 
And this henceforward be its duty, 
For which 'twas framed at first in beauty : 



1 Die Straszen fallen sich, die flaxen.— Schiller mean 
lie halls, as the Town Hall, the Halls of Justice, &c. 

3 Brim is the technical term for the body of * he bell, < 
part upon which the clapper strikes. 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAJS. 



High o'er this world of lowly labor 

In Heaven's blue concave let it rise, 
And heave aloft, the thunder's neighbor, 

In commerce with the starry skies. 
There let it chorus with the story 

Of the resplendent planet-sphere, 
Which nightly hymns its Maker's glory, 

And guides the garland-crowned year. 
Be all its powers devoted only 

To things eternal and sublime, 
As hour by hour it tracks the lonely 

And forward-winging flight of Time ! 
To destiny an echo lending, 

But never doom'd itself to feel, 
Forever be it found attending 

Each change of Life's revolving wheel ; 
And as its tone, when tolling loudest, 

Dies on the listener's ear away, 
So let it teach that all that's proudest 

Iu human might must thus decay ! 



Now attach the ropes — now move, 

Heave the Bell from this its prison, 
Till it hath to Heaven above 
And the realm of Sound arisen. 
Heave it ! heave it ! — There — 
Now it swings in air. 
Joy to this our city may it presage ! 
Peace attend its first harmonious message ! 



THE DIVER 

A BALLAD. 

" Baron or vassal, is any so bold 

As to plunge in yon gulf, and follow 
Through chamber and cave this beaker of 

gold, 
Which already the waters whirlingly 

swallow ? 
Who retrieves the prize from the horrid 

abyss 
Shall keep it: the gold and the glory be 

his!" 

So spake the King, and incontinent flung 
From the cliff that, gigantic and steep, 

High over Charybdis's whirlpool hung, 
A glittering wine-cup down in the deep ; 



And again he ask'd, " Is there one so brave 
As to plunge for the gold in the dangerous 
wave ?" 

And the knights and the knaves all answer- 
less hear 
The challenging words of the speaker ; 

And some glance downward with looks of 
fear, 
And none are ambitious of winning the 
beaker. 

And a third time the King his question 
urges — 

"Dares none, then, breast the menacing 
surges ?" 

But the silence lasts unbroken and long ; 

When a Page, fair-featured and soft, 
Steps forth from the shuddering vassal- 
throng, 
And his mantle and girdle already are 
doff'd, 
And the groups of nobles and damosels nigh, 
Envisage the youth with a wondering eye. 

He dreadlessly moves to the gaunt crag's 

brow, 
And measures the drear depth under ; — 
But the waters Charybdis had swallow 'd 

she now 
Regurgitates bellowing back in thunder ; 
And the foam, with a stunning and horrible 

sound, 
Breaks its hoar way through the waves 

around. 



And it seethes and roars, it welters and boils, 

As when water is shower'd upon fire ; 
And skyward the spray agonizingly toils, 
And flood over flood sweeps higher and 
higher, 
Upheaving, dowurolling, tumultuously, 
As though the abyss would bring forth a 
young sea. 



But the terrible turmoil at last is over ; 

And down through the whirlpool's well 
A yawning blackness ye may discover, 

Profound as the passage to central Hell; 



POEMS BY JAMES CLAHENCE MANGAN. 



And the waves, under many a struggle and 

spasm, 
Are suck'd in afresh by the gorge of the 

chasm. 

And now, ere the din rethunders, the youth 
Invokes the Great Name of God ; 

And blended shrieks of horror and ruth 
Burst forth as he plunges headlong unaw'd : 

And down he descends thro' the watery bed, 

And the waves boom over his sinking head. 

But though for a while they have ceased 

their swell, 
They roar in the hollows beneath, 
And from mouth to mouth goes round the 

farewell — 
" Brave-spirited youth, good-night in 

death ! " 
And louder and louder the roarings grow, 
While with trembling all eyes are directed 

below. 



Now, wert thou even, O monarch ! to fling 

Thy crown in the angry abyss, 
And exclaim, " Who recovers the crown 
shall be king !" 
The guerdon were powerless to tempt me, 
I wis ; 
For what in Charybdis's caverns dwells 
No chronicle penn'd of mortal tells. 

Full many a vessel beyond repeal 

Lies low in that, gulf to-day, 
And the shatter'd masts and the drifting 
keel 
Alone tell the tale of the swooper's prey. 
But hark ! — with a noise like the howling of 

storms, 
Again the wild water the surface deforms ! 

And it hisses and rages, it welters and boils, 

As when water is spurted on fire, 
And skyward the spray agonizingly toils, 
Ar.d wave over wave beats higher and 
higher, 
While the foam, with a stunning and horri- 
ble sound, 
Breaks its white way through the waters 
around. 



When lo ! ere as yet the billowy war 

Loud-raging beneath is o'er, 
An arm and a neck are distinguish'd afar, 

And a swimmer is seen to make for the 
shore, 
And hardily buffeting surge and breaker, 
He springs upon land with the golden beaker. 

And lengthen'd and deep is the breath he 

draws 
As he hails the bright face of the sun ; 
And a murmur goes round of delight and 

applause — 
He lives ! — he is safe ! — he has conquer'd 

and won ! 
He has master'd Charybdis's perilous wave ! 
He has rescued his life and his prize from 

the grave ! 

Now, bearing the booty triumphantly, 
At the foot of the throne he falls, 

And he proffers his trophy on bended knee ; 
And the King to his beautiful daughter 
calls, 

Who fills with red wine the golden cup, 

While the gallant stripling again stands up, 

" All hail to the King ! Rejoice, ye who 
breathe 

Wheresoever Earth's gales are driven ! 
For ghastly and drear is the region beneath ; 

And let Man beware how he tempts high 



Let him never essay to uncurtain to light 
What destiny shrouds in horror and night ! 

"The maelstrom dragg'd me down in its 
course ; 
When, forth from the cleft of a rock, 
A torrent outrush'd with tremendous force, 
And met me anew with deadening shock ; 
And I felt my brain swim and my senses leel 
As the double-flood whirl'd me round like a 
wheel. 

" But the God I had cried to answer'd me 
When my destiny darkliest frown'd, 

And He show'd me a reef of rocks in the sea. 
Whereunto I clung, and there I found 

On a coral jag ths goblet of gold, 

Which else to tVe lowermost crypt had roll'd. 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



" And the gloom through measureless toises 
under 
Was all as a purple haze ; 
And though sound was none in these realms 
of wonder, 
I shudder'd when under my shrinking gaze 
That wilderness lay develop'd where wander 
The dragon, and dog-fish, and sea-salamander. 

" And I saw the huge kraken and magnified 
snake, 
And the thornback and ravening shark, 

Their way through the dismal waters take; 
While the hammer-fish wallow'd below in 
the dark, 

And the river-horse rose from his lair be- 
neath, 

And grinn'd through the grate of his spiky 
teeth. 

" And there I hung, aghast and dismay'd, 
Among skeleton larvse, the only 

Soul conscious of life — despairing of aiJ 
In that vastness untrodden and lonely. 

Not a human voice — not an earthly sound — 

But silence, and water, and monsters around. 

•' Soon one of these monsters approach'd me, 
and plied 
His hundred feelers to drag 
Me down through the darkness; when, 
springing aside, 
I abandon'd my hold of the coral crag, 
And the maelstrom grasp'd me with arms of 

strength, 
And upwhirl'd and upbore me to daylight 

at length." 
Then spake to the Page the marvelling King, 

" The golden cup is thine own, 
But — I promise thee further this jewell'd ring 
That beams with a priceless hyacinth-stone, 
Shouldst thou dive once more and discover 

for me 
The mysteries shrined in the cells of the 
sea." — 

Now the King's fair daughter was touch'd 

and grieved, 
And she fell at her father's feet — 
" O father, enough what the youth has 

achieved ! 



Expose not his life anew, I entreat ! 
If this your heart's longing you cannot well 

tame, 
There are surely knights here who will rival 
his fame." — 

But the King hurl'd downward the golden 

cup, 
And he spake as it sank in the wave, 
" Now, shouldst thou a second time bring it 

me up, 
As my knight, and the bravest of all my 

brave, 
Thou shalt sit at my nuptial banquet, and she 
Who pleads for thee thus thy wedded shall 

be !"— 

Then the blood to the youth's hot temples 
rushes, 
And his eyes on the maiden are cast, 
And he sees her at first overspread with 
blushes, 
And then growing pale and sinking aghast. 
So, vowing to win so glorious a crown, 
For Life or for Death he again plunges down. 

The far-sounding din returns amain, 

And the foam is alive as before, 
And all eyes are bent downward. In vain, 
in vain — 
The billows indeed re-dash and re-roar. 
But while ages shall roll and those billowB 

shall thunder, 
That youth shall sleep under ! 



THE MAIDEN'S PLAINT. 

The forest-pines groan — 

The dim clouds are flitting — 

The Maiden is sitting 

On the green shore alone. 

The surges are broken with might, with 

might, 
And her sighs are pour'd on the desert Night, 
And tears are troubling her eye. 

" All, all is o'er : 
The heart is destroy'd — 
The world is a void — 
It can yield me no more. 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



345 



Then, Master of Life, take back thy boon : 
I have tasted such bliss as is under the moon : 
I have lived, I have loved — I would die !" 

Tby tears, O Forsaken ! 

Are gushing in vain ; 

Tby -wail shall not waken 

The Buried again : 

But all that is left for the desolate bosom, 

The flower of whose Love has been blasted 

in blossom, 
Be granted to thee from on high ! 



Then pour like a river 

Thy tears without number ! 

The Buried can never 

Be wept from their slumber : 

But the luxury dear to the Broken-hearted, 

When the .sweet enchantment of Love hath 

departed, 
Be thine — the tear and the sigh ! 



THE UNREALITIES. 

And dost thou faithlessly abandon me ? 

Must thy chameleon phantasies depart? 
Thy griefs, thy gladnesses, take wing and 
flee 
The bower they builded in this lonely 
heart ? 
O, Summer of Existence, golden, glowing ! 
Can naught avail to curb thine onward 
motion ? 
In vain ! The river of my years is flowing, 
And soon shall mingle with the eternal 
ocean. 



Extinguish'd in dead darkness lies the sun, 
That lighted up my shrivell'd world of 

wonder ; 
Those fairy bands Imagination spun 

Around my heart have long been rent 
asunder. 
Gone, gone forever is the fine belief, 

The all too generous trust in the Ideal : 
All my Divinities have died of grief, 

And left me wedded to the Rude and Real. 



As clasp'd the enthusiastic Prince 1 of old 

The lovely statue, stricken by its charms, 
Until the marble, late so dead and cold, 
Glow'd into throbbing life beneath his 
arms ; 
So fondly round enchanting Nature's form, 
I too entwined my passionate arms, till, 
press'd 
In my embraces, she began to warm 

And breathe and revel in my bounding 
breast. 



And, sympathizing with my virgin bliss, 

The speechless things of Earth received a 
tongue ; 
They gave me back Affection's burning kiss, 

And loved the Melody my bosom sung : 
Then sparkled hues of Life on tree and flower, 

Sweet music from the silver fountain 
flow'd ; 
All soulless images in that brief hour 

The Echo of my Life divinely glow'd ! 



How struggled all my feelings to extend 
Themselves afar beyond their prisoning 
bounds ! 
Oh, how I long'd to enter Life and blend 
Me with its words and deeds, its shapes 
and sounds ! 
This human theatre, how fair it beam'd 
While yet the curtain hung before the 
scene ! 
Uproll'd, how little then the arena seem'd ! 
That little how contemptible and mean ! 



How roam'd, imparadised in blest illusion, 
With soul to which upsoaring Hope lent 
pinions, 
And heart as yet unchill'd by Care's intru- 
sion, 
How roam'd the stripling-lord through 
his dominions ! 
Then Fancy bore him to the palest star 

Pinnacled in the lofty ether dim: 
Was naught so elevated, naught so fair, 
But thither the Enchantress guided him ! 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



With what rich reveries his brain was rife ! 
What adversary might withstand him 
long? 
How glanced and danced before the Car of 
Life 
The visions of his thought, a dazzling 
throng ! 
For there was Fortune with her golden 
crown, 
There flitted Love with heart-bewitching 
boon, 
There glitter'd starry-diadem'd Renown, 
And Truth, with radiance like the sun of 



But ah ! ere half the journey yet was over, 
That gorgeous escort wended separate 
ways ; 
All faithlessly forsook the pilgrim-rover, 

And one by one evanish'd from his gaze. 
Away inconstant-handed Fortune flew ; 
And, while the thirst of knowledge burn'd 
alway, 
The dreary mists of Doubt arose and threw 
Their shadow over Truth's resplendent 
ray. 

I saw the sacred garland-crown of Fame 

Around the common brow its glory shed : 
The rapid Summer died, the Autumn came, 

And Love, with all his necromancies, fled, 
And ever lonelier and silenter 

Grew the dark images of Life's poor dream, 
Till scarcely o'er the dusky scenery there 

The lamp of Hope itself could cast a gleam. 



And now, of all, Who, in my day of dolor, 
Alone survives to clasp my willing hand ? 
Who stands beside me still, my best con- 
soler, 
And lights my pathway to the Phantom- 
strand ? 
Thou, Friendship ! stancher of our wounds 
and sorrows, 
From whom this lifelong pilgrimage of 
, pain 
A balsam for its worst afflictions borrows ; 
Thou whom I early sought, nor sought in 
vain ! 



And thou whose labors by her light are 
wrought, 
Soother and soberer of the spirit's fever, 
Who, shaping all things, ne'er destroyesb 
aught, 
Calm Occupation ! thou that -weariest 
never ! 
Whose efforts rear at'last the mighty Mount 
Of Life, though merely grain on grain 
they lay, 
And, slowly toiling, from the vast Account 
Of Time strike minutes, days, and years 
away. 



THE WORDS OF REALITY. 

I name you Three Words -which ought to 
resound 
In thunder from zone to zone : 
But the world understands them not — they 
are found 
In the depths of the heart alone. 
That man must indeed be utterly base 
In whose heart the Three Words no longei 
find place. 

First, — Man is free, is created free, 

Though born a manacled slave : — 
I abhor the abuses of Liberty — 

I hear how the populace rave, — 
But I never can dread, and I dare not dis- 
dain, 
The slave who stands up and shivers his 
chain! 

And, — Virtue is not an empty name : — 

'Tis the paction of Man with his soul, 
That, though balk'd of his worthiest earthly 
aim, 
He will still seek a heavenly goal ; 
For, that to which worldling natures are 

blind 
Is a pillar of light for the childlike mind. 

And, — A God, an Immutable Will, exists, 
However Men waver and yield : — 

Beyond Space, beyond Time, and their dim- 
ming mists, 
The Ancient of Davs is reveal'd ; 



POEMS BY JAMES CLAKENCE MANGAN. 



34J 



And while Time and the Universe haste to 

decay, 
Their unchangeable Author is Lord for aye ! 

Then, treasure those Words. They ought 
to resound 
In thunder from zone to zone ; 
But the world will not teach thee their 
force ; — they are found 
In the depths of the heart alone ; 
Thou never, O Man ! canst be utterly base 
While those Three Words in thy heart find 
place ! 



THE WORDS OF DELUSION. 

Three Words are heard with the Good and 
Blameless, 

Three ruinous words and vain — 
Their sound is hollow — their use is aimless — 

They cannot console and sustain. 
Man's path is a path of thorns and troubles 
So long as he chases these vagrant bubbles. 

So long as he hopes that Triumph and 



Will yet be the guerdon of Worth : — 
Both are dealt out to Baseness in lavishest 
measure ; 

The Worthy possess not the earth — 
They are exiled spirits and strangers here, 
And look for their home to a purer sphere. 

So long as he dreams that On clay-made 
creatures 
The noonbeams of Truth will shine : — 
No mortal may lift up the veil from her 
features ; 
On earth we but guess and opine : 
We prison her vainly in pompous words : 
She is not our handmaid — she is the Lord's. 

So long as he sighs for a Golden Era, 
When Good will be victress o'er III : 

The triumph of Good is an idiot's chimera ; 
She never can combat — nor will : 

The Foe must contend and o'ermaster, till, 
cloy'd 

By destruction, he perishes, self-destroy'd. 



Then, Man ! through Life's labyrinths wind- 
ing and darken'd, 
Take, dare to take, Faith as thy clue ! 
That which eye never saw, to which ear 

NEVER HEARKEN'd, 

That, that is the Beauteous and True !' 
It is not without — let the foci seek it there — 
It is in thine own bosom and heart — the 
Perfect, the Good, and the Fair !' 



THE COURSE OP TIME. 

Time is threefold — triple — three : 

First — and Midst — and Last ; 
Was— and Is— and Tet-To-Be ;— 

Future — Present — Past. 

Lightning-swift, the Is is gone — 
The Yet-To-Be crawls with a snakelike slow- 
Still stands the Was for aye — its goal is won* 
No fierce impatience, no entreating, 

Can spur or wing the tardy Tarrier ; 

No strength, no skill, can rear a barrier 
Between Departure and the Fleeting : 
No prayers, no tears, no magic spell, 
Can ever move the Immovable. 

Wouldst thou, fortunate and sage, 
Terminate Life's Pilgrimage ? 
Wouldst thou quit this mundane stage 
Better, happier, worthier, wiser ? 
Then, whate'er thine aim and end, 
Take, O Youth ! for thine adviser, 

Hot thy working-mate, The Slow ; 
Oh, make not The Vanishing thy friend, 

Or The Permanent thy foe! 



The Future is Man's immemorial hymn : 
In vain runs the Present a-wasting ; 

To a golden goal in the distance dim 
In life, in death, he is hasting. 

The world grows old, and young, and old, 

But the ancient story still bears to be told. 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



Hope smiles on the Boy from the hoar of 
his birth : — 
To the Youth it gives bliss without limit ; 
It gleams for Old Age as a star on earth, 

And the darkness of Death cannot dim it. 
Its rays will gild even fathomless gloom, 
When the Pilgrim of Life lies down in the 
tomb. 

Never deem it a Shibboleth phrase of the 
crowd, 

Never call it the dream of a rhymer ; 
The instinct of Nature proclaims it aloud — 

We are destined for something sub- 

LlilER. 

This truth, which the Witness within reveals, 
The purest worshipper deepliest feels. 



3fadwig Itghtand. 



SPIRITS EVERYWHERE. 

A many a summer is dead and buried 
Since over this flood I last was ferried ; 
And then, as now, the Noon lay bright 
On strand, and water, and castled height. 

Beside me then in this bark sat nearest 
Two companions the best and dearest; 
One was a gentle and thoughtful sire, 
The other a youth with a soul of fire. 

One, outworn by Care and Illness, 
Sought the grave of the Just in stillness 
The other's shroud was the bloody rain 
And thunder-smoke of the battle plain. 

Yet still, when memory's necromancy 
Robes the Past in the hues of Fancy, 
Me dreameth I hear and see the Twain, 
With talk and smiles at my side again ! 

Even the grave is a bond of union ; 
Spirit and spirit best hold communion ! 
Seen through Faith, by the Inward Eye, 
It is after Life they are truly nigh ! 



Then, ferryman, take this coin, I pray thee, 
Thrice thy fare 1 cheerfully pay thee ; 
For, though thou seestthem not, there stand 
Anear me Two from the Phantom-land ! 



SPRING ROSES. 

Green-leafy Whitsuntide was come, 
To gladden many a Christian home: — 

Spake then King Engelbert — " A fitter 
Time than this we scarce shall see 
For tournament and revelrie : 

Ho ! to horse, each valiant Ritter !" 

Gay banners wave above the walls, — 
The herald's trumpet loudly calls, 

And beauteous eyes rain radiant glances ! 
And of all the knights can none 
Match the Monarch's gallant son, 

In the headlong shock of lances ! 

Till, at the close, a Stranger came, — 

Japan-black iron cased his frame ; 
In his air was somewhat kingly : 

Well I guess, that stalwart knight 

Yet will overcome in fight 
All the hosts of Europe singly. 

As he flings his gage to earth 

You hear no more the sound of mirth, — 

All shrink back, as dreading danger ; 
The Prince alone defies the worst — 
Alas! in vain ! He falls, unhorsed: 

Sole victor bides the Sable Stranger ! 

Boots now no longer steed or lance: 
" Light up the hall ! — a dance ! — a d ance ! 

Anon a dazzling throng assembles ; 

And then and therethat DarkUnscann'd 
Asks the Royal Maiden's hand, 

Whilk she gives, albeit it trembles. 

And as they dance — the Dark and Fair- 
In the Maiden's breast and hair 

Every golden clasp uncloses, 

And, to and fro — that way and this — 
Drops dimm'd each pearl and amethyss— 

Drop dead the shrivell'd yello v roses. 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



»49 



But who makes merriest at the feast ? 

Not he who furnish'd it at least ! 
Sad is he for son and daughter! 

Fears that reason cannot bind 

Chase each other through his mind, 
Swift and dark as midnight water ! 

So pale both youth and maiden were ! 
Whereon the Guest, affecting care, 
Spake, "Blushful wine will mend your 
color," 
Fill'd he then a beaker up, 
And they — they drank ; but oh ! that 
cup 
Proved in sooth a draught of dolor ! 

Their eyelids droop, and neither speaks ; 

They kiss their father ; and their cheeks, 
Pale before, wax white and shrunken : 

Momently their death draws nigher, 

He, the while, their wretched sire, 
Gazing on them, terror-drunken ! 

" Spare these ! Take me /" he shriek'd, 

and pressed 
The stone-cold corpses to his breast ; 
When, to that heart-smitten father 
Spake the Guest, with iron voice, 
"Autumn spoils are not my choice; 

in the Spring I gather !" 



THE CASTLE OVER THE SEA. 

" Sawbst thou the castle that beetles over 

The wine-dark sea ? 
The rosy sunset clouds do hover 

Above it so goldenly ! 

" It hath a leaning as though it would bend to 

The waves below ; 
It hath a longing as though to ascend to 

The skies in their gorgeous glow." 

" — Well saw I the castle that beetles over 

The wine-dark sea; 
And a pall of watery clouds did cover 

Its battlements gloomsomely." 



"The winds and the moonlit waves were 
singing 

A choral song? 
And the brilliant castle-hall was ringing 

With melody all night long ?" 

" The winds and the moonless waves were 
sleeping 

In stillness all ; 
But many voices of woe and weeping 

Rose out from the castle-hall." — 

— " And sawest thou not step forth so lightly 

The King and the Queen, 
Their festal dresses bespangled brightly, 

Their crowns of a dazzling sheen ? 

" And by their side a resplendent vision, 

A virgin fair, 
The glorious child of some clime elysian 

With starry gems in her hair r"" 

" — Well saw I the twain by the wine-dark 
water 

Walk slower and slower ; 
They were clad in weeds, and their vir- 
gin daughter 

Was found at their side no more." 



DURAND OP BLONDEN. 

Towards the lofty walls of Balbi, lo ! Durand 

of Blonden hies; 
Thousand songs are in his bosom ; Love and 

Pleasure light his eyes. 
There, he dreams, his own true maiden, 

beauteous as the evening star, 
Leaning o'er her turret-lattice, waits to hear 

her knight's guitar. 



In the linden-shaded courtyard soon Durand 

begins his lay. 
But his eyes glance vainly upward ; there 

they meet no answering ray. 
Flowers are blooming in the lattice, rich of 

odor, fair to see, 
But the fairest flower of any, Lady Blanca, 

where is she ? 



s 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



Ah ! while yet he chants the ditty, draws a 


Towards the Distance, 


mourner near and speaks — 


Roams each fonder 


" She is dead, is dead forever, whom Durand 


Yearning yonder, 


of Blonden seeks !" 


There, where wander 


Ana the knight replies not, breathes not; 


Golden stars in blest existence! 


darkness gathers round his brain : 




He is dead, is dead forever, and the mourn- 




ers weep the twain. 


Thence what fragrant 




Airs are blowing 1 


In the darken'd castle-chapel burn a many 


What rich vagrant 


tapers bright : 


Music flowing ! 


There the lifeless maiden lies, with whitest 


Angel voices, 


wreaths and ribands dight. 


Tones wherein the 


There But lo ! a mighty marvel ! She 


Heart rejoices, 


hath oped her eyes of blue ! 


Call from thence from Earth to win thee t 


All are lost in joy and wonder! LarlyBlanca 




lives anew ! 




Dreams and visions flit before her, as she 


How yearns and burns for evermore 


asks of those anear, 


My heart for thee, thou blessed shore ! 


"Heard I not my lover singing ! — Is Durand 


And shall I never see thy fairy 


of Blonden here ?" 


Bowers and palace-gardens near? 


Yes, Lady, thou hast heard him ; he has 


Will no enchanted skiff so airy, 


died for thy dear sake ! 


Sail from thee to seek me here ? 


He could wake his tranced mistress : him 


Oh ! undeveloped Land, 


shall none forever wake ! 


Whereto I fain would flee, 




What mighty hand shall break each band 


He is in a realm of glory, but as yet he 


That keeps my soul from thee ? 


weets not where ; 


In vain I pine and sigh 


He but seeks the Lady Blanca: dwells she 


To trace thy dells and streams : 


not already there ? 


They gleam but by the spectral sky 


Till he finds her must he wander to and fro, 


That lights my shifting dreams. 


as one bereaven, 


Ah ! what fair form, flitting through yon 


Ever calling, "Blanca! Blanca!" through 


green glades, 


the desert halls of Heaven. 


Dazes mine eye? Spirit, oh! rive my 




chain ! 


m 


Woe is my soul ! Swiftly the vision fades, 




And I start up — waking — to weep in vain! 


ludmtg ®teh. 


Hence this fever ; 




Hence this burning 
Love and Longing: 




LIFE IS THE DESERT AND THE SOLITUDE. 


Hence forever, 




Ever turning, 


Whence this fever ? 


Ever thronging, 


Whence this burning 


Towards the Distance, 


Love and Longing? 


Roams each fonder 


Ah ! forever, 


Yearning yonder, 


Ever turning, 


There, where wander 


Ever thronging 


Golden stars in blest existence ! 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 





How such a bell resembles 


LIGHT AND SHAJE. 


The drooping poet's heirt ! 


The gayest lot beneath 


Thereon must Misery's hammer drearily 


By Grief is shaded : 
Pale Evening sees the wreath 


jar, 


Ere the deep melody that shrinks and 


Of Morning faded. 


trembles 




Within its daedal chambers can impart 


Pain slays, or Pleasure cloys ; 


Its tale unto the listless world afar. 


All mortal morrows 




But waken hollow joys 




Or lasting sorrows. 


And, woe is me ! too often 




Hath such a bell alone, 


Hope yesternoon was bright, — 


At such an hour, with such disastrous 


Earth beam'd with beauty ; 


tongue, 


But soon came conquering Night 


Power to disarm the heart's despair, and 


And claim'd his booty. 


soften 




Its chords to music ; even as now its tone 


Life's billows, as they roll, 


Inspires me with the lay I thus have sung 


Would fain look sunward ; 




But ever must the soul 




Drift darkly onward. 




The sun forsakes the sky, 


THE WANDERER'S CHANT. 


Sad stars are sovereigns, 




Long shadows mount on high 


May sparkle for others 


And darkness governs. 


Henceforward this wine ! 




Adieu, beloved brothers 


So Love deserts his throne, 


And sisters of mine, 


Weary of reigning ! 


My boyhood's green valleys, 


Ah ! would he but rule on 


My fathers' gray halls ! 


Young and unwaning ! 


Where Liberty rallies 


Pain slays, or Pleasure cloys, 


My destiny calls. 


And all our morrows 




But waken hollow joys 


The sun never stands, 


Or lasting sorrows. 


Never slackens his motion ; 




He travels all lands 


♦ 


Till he sinks in the ocean ; 




The stars cannot rest ; 


Justinus Scrncr. 


The wild winds have no pillow, 
And the shore from its breast 




Ever flings the blue billow. 


THE MIDNIGHT BELL. 


Hark ! through the midnight lonely 


So Man in the harness 


How tolls the convent-bell ! 


Of Fortune mu6t roam, 


But ah ! no summer-breeze awakes the 


And far in the Farness 


sound ; 


Look out for his home ; 


The beating of the heavy hammer only 


Unresting and errant, 


Is author of the melancholy knell 


West, East, South, and North, 


That startles the dull ear for miles 


The liker his parent, 


around. 


The weariless Earth . 



352 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



Though he hears not the words of 

The language he loves, 
He kens the blithe birds of 

His Fatherland's groves: 
Old voices are singing 

From river and rill, 
And flow'rets are springing 

To welcome him still. 



And Beauty's dear 

Are lovely to view, 
And Friendship still blesses 

The soul of the True : 
And love, too, so garlands 

The wanderer's dome, 
That the farthest of far lands 

To him is a home. 



HOT AT HOME. 



"One grand cause of this uneasiness is, that Man iB not 8 
me. 11 — Godwin, Thoughts on Man. 



My spirit, alas, knoweth no rest ! 
I lay under Heaven's blue dome, 

One day, in the summer beam, 
By the Mummel-zee in the forest, 

And dream'd a dream 
Of my Home — 

My Home, the Home of my Father ! 
Shon» glory within and without ; 

Shone bright in its garden bowers 
Such fruits as the Angels gather, 

And gold-hued flowers 
All about ! 

Alas ! the illusion soon vanish'd. 

I awoke. There were clouds in the sky. 

My tears began to flow. 
My quiet of soul was banish'd ; 

I felt as though 
I could die ! 

And still with a heart ever swelling 
With yearnings, — and still with years 

Overdark'd by a desolate lot, 
I seek for my Father's Dwelling, 

And see it not 
For my tears ! 



(Sottfrierl Augustus Buerger. 



HOPE. 



Oh ! maiden of heavenly birth, 

Than rubies and gold more precious, 
Who earnest of old upon Earth, 

To solace the human species ! 
As fair as the morn that uncloses 

Her gates in a region sunny, 
Thou openest lips of roses 

And utterest words of honey. 

When Innocence forth at the portals 

Of Sorrow and Sin was driven, 
For sake of afflicted mortals 

Thou leftest thy home in Heaven, 
To mitigate Anguish and Trouble, 

The monstrous brood of Crime, 
And restore us the prospects noble 

That were lost in the olden time. 

Tranquillity never-ending 

And Happiness move in thy train : 
Where Might is with Might contending, 

And labor and tumult reign, 
Thou succorest those that are toiling, 

Ere yet all their force hath departed ; 
And pourest thy balsam of oil in 

The wounds of the Broken-hearted. 

Thou lendest new strength to the warrior 

When battle is round him and peril ; 
Thou formest the husbandman's barrier 

'Gainst Grief, when his fields are sterile 
From the sun and the bright Spring show 
ers, 

From the winds and the gentle dew, 
Thou gatherest sweets for the flowers 

And growth for the meads anew. 

When armies of sorrows come swooping, 

And Reason is captive to Sadness, 
Thou raisest the soul that was drooping, 

And givest it spirit and gladness ; 
The powers Despair had degraded 

Thou snatchest from dreary decay, 
And all that was shrunken and faded 

Reblooms in the light of thy ray. 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



When the Sick on his couch lies faintest 

Thou deadenest half of his dolors, 
For still as he suffers thou paintest 

The Future in rainbow colors : 
By thee are his visions vermilion'd ; 

Thou thronest his sold in a palace, 
In which, under purple pavilion'd, 

He quaffs Immortality's chalice. 

Down into the mine's black hollows, 

Where the slave is dreeing his doom, 
A ray from thy lamp ever follows 

His footstejjs throughout the gloom. 
And the wretch condemn'd in the galleys 

To swink at the ponderous oar, 
Revived by thy whisperings, rallies, 

And thinks on his labors no more. 

O goddess ! the gales of whose breath 

Are the heralds of Life when we languish. 
And who dashest the potion of Death 

From the lips of the martyr to Anguish : 
No earthly event is so tragic 

But thou winnest good from it still, 
And the lightning-like might of thy magic 

Is conqueror over all ill ! 



larl gimmh 



O MARIA, REGINA MISERICORDI^E ! 

There lived a Knight long years ago, 
Proud, carnal, vain, devotionless. 
Of God above, or Hell below, 

He took no thought, but, undismay'd, 
Pursued his course of wickedness. 

His heart was rock ; he never pray'd 
To be forgiven for all his treasons ; 
He only said, at certain seasons, 
" O Mart, Queen of Mercy ! " 

Tears roll'd, and found him still the same, 
Still draining Pleasure's poison-bowl ; 

Yet felt he now and then some shame ; 
The torment of the Undying Worm 
At whiles woke in bis trembling soul ; 



And then, though powerless to reform, 
Would he, in hope to appease that sternest 
Avenger, cry, and more in earnest, 
"O Mart, Queen of Mercy!" 

At last Youth's riotous time was gone, 
And loathing now came after Sin. 
With locks yet brown he felt as one 
Grown gray at heart ; and oft with tears, 
He tried, but all in vain, to win 

From the dark desert of his years 
One flower of hope ; yet, morn and e'ening, 
He still cried, but with deeper meaning, 
" O Mary, Queen of Mercy ! " 

A happier mind, a holier mood, 
A purer spirit, ruled him now ; 

No more in thrall to flesh and blood, 
He took a pilgrim-staff in hand, 
And, under a religious vow, 

Travell'd his way to Pommerland : 
There enter'd he an humble cloister, 
Exclaiming, while his eyes grew moister, 
" O Mary, Queen of Mercy ! " 

Here, shorn and cowl'd, he laid his cares- 
Aside, and wrought for God alone. 
Albeit he sang no choral prayers, 

Nor matin hymn nor laud could learn, 
He mortified his flesh to stone : 

For him no penance was too stern ; 
And often pray'd he on his lonely 
Cell-couch at night, but still said only, 
" O Mary, Queen of Mercy ! " 



And thus he lived long, long ; and, when 
God's angels call'd him, thus he died. 
Confession made he none to men, 

Yet, when they anointed him with oil, 
He seem'd already glorified, 

His penances, his tears, his toil, 
Were past ; and now, with passionate sigh- 
ing, 
Praise thus broke from his lips while dying 
" Mary, Queen of Mercy ! " 



They buried him with mass and song 
Aneath a little knoll so green ; 

But, lo ! a wonder-sight ! — Ere long 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



Rose, blooming, from that verdant 
mound, 
The fairest lily ever seen ; 

And, on its petal-edges round, 
Relieving their translucent whiteness, 
Did shine these words in gold-hued bright- 
ness, 
" O Mary, Queen of Mercy ! " 



And, would God's angels give thee power, 
Thou, dearest reader, mightst behold 
The fibres of this holy flower 

Upspringing from the dead man's heart 
In tremulous threads of light and gold ; 

Then wouldst thou choose the better 
part !' 
And thenceforth flee Sin's foul sugges- 
tions ; 
Thy sole response to mocking questions, 
" O Mart, Queen of Mercy ! " 



Johaim (Klias fkhlegel. 



LOVE -DITTY. 



Mt love, my winged love, is like the swallow, 
Which in Autumn flies from home, 
But, when balmy Spring again is come, 

And soft airs and sunshine follow, 
Retu'rneth newly, 

And gladdens her old haunts till after 
bowery July. 



My slumbrous love is like the winter-smitten 
Tree, whereon Decay doth feed, 
Till the drooping dells and forests read 

What the hand of May hath written 
Against their sadness ; 
And then, behold ! it wakens up to life 
and gladness ! 



My love, my flitting love, is like the shadow 

All day long on path or wall : 

Let but Evening's dim-gray curtains tall, 
And the sunlight leave the meadow, 

And, self-invited, 

It wanders through all bowers when 
Beauty's lamps are lighted. 



(gmamicl (Seibkr. 



CHARLEMAGNE AND THE BRIDGE OP 
MOONBEAMS. 

[" Many traditions are extant of the fondness of Charle- 
magne for the neighborhood of Langewinkel. Nay, it U 
firmly believed that tbis affection survived his death ; and that 
even now, at certain seasons of the year, his spirit loves to 
wake from its slumber of ages, and revisit it still "— Smow»'» 
Legends ofllie Rhine, vol. ii.] 

Beauteous is it in the Summer-night, and 

calm along the Rhine, 
And like molten silver shines the 'ight that 

sleeps on wave and vine. 
But a stately Figure standeth on the Silent 

Hill alone, 
Like the phantom of a Monarch looking 

vainly for his throne ! 



Yes ! — 'tis he — the unforgotten Lord of this 

beloved land ! 
'Tis the glorious Car'lus Magnus, with his 

gleamy sword in hand, 
And his crown enwreath'd with myrtle, and 

his golden sceptre bright, 
And his rich imperial purple vesture floating 

on the nigrht ! 



Since he dwell'd among his people, stormy 

centuries have roll'd. 
Thrones and kingdoms have departed, and 

the world is waxing old : 
Why leaveth he his house of rest ? Why 

cometh he once more 
From his marble tomb tc zander here by 

LangawinkePs shore ? 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



356 



Oh, fear ye not the Emperor ! — he doth not 
leave his tomb 

As the herald of disaster to our land of 
blight and bloom ; 

He cometh not with blight or ban on castle, 
field, or shrine, 

But with overflowing blessings for the Vine- 
yards of the Rhine ! 

As a bridge across the river lie the moon- 
beams all the time, 

They shine from Langawinkel unto ancient 
Ingelheim ; 

And along this Bridge of Moonbeams is the 
Monarch seen to go, 

And from thence he pours his blessings on 
the royal flood below. 

He blesses all the vineyards, he blesses vale 
and plain, 

The lakes and glades and orchards, and fields 
of golden grain, 

The lofty castle-turrets and the lowly cot- 
tage-hearth ; 

He blesses all, for over all he reign'd of yore 
on earth ; 

Then to each and all so lovingly he waves a 

mute Farewell, 
And returns to slumber softly in his tomb at 

La Chapelle, 
Till the Summer-time be come again, with 

sun, and rain, and dew, 
And the vineyards and the gardens woo him 

back to them anew. 



fart Theodore f oerner. 



THE MINSTREL'S MOTHERLAND. 

Where lies the minstrel's Motherland ? 
Where Love is faith and Friendship duty, 
WL9re Valor wins its meed from Beauty, 
Where Man makes Truth, not Gold his 
booty, 

And Freedom bids the soul expand — 

There lay my Motherland ! 



Where Man makes Truth, not Gold his 
booty, 
There was my Motherland ! 

How fares the minstrel's Motherland ! 

The land of oaks and sunlit waters 

Is dark with woe, is red with slaughters ; 

Her bravest sons, her fairest daughters, 
Are dead — or live proscribed and bann'd — 
So fares my Motherland ! 

The land of oaks and sunlit waters — 
My cherish'd Motherland ! 

Why weeps the minstrel's Motherland ? 
To see her sons, while tyrants trample 
Her yellow fields and vineyards ample, 
So coldly view the bright example 

Long shown them by a faithful band — 

For this weeps Motherland ! 

Because they slight that high example 

Weeps thus my Motherland ! 

What wants the minstrel's Motherland ? 
To fire the Cold and rouse the Dreaming, 
And see their German broadswords 

gleaming, 
And spy their German standard stream- 

Who spurn the Despot's haught command — 
This wants my Motherland ! 

To fire the Cold and rouse the Dreaming, 
This wants my Motherland ! 

Whom calls the minstrel's Motherland ? 
Her saints and gods of ancient ages, 
Her Great and Bold, her bards and sages, 
To bless the war fair Freedom wages, 

And speed her torch from hand to hand — 

These calls my Motherland ! 

Her Great and Bold, her bards and sages, 

These calls my Motherland ! 



And hopes then still the minstrel's Land ? 

Yes ! Prostrate in her deep dejection, 

She still dares hope swift resurrection ! 

She hopes in Heaven and His protection 
Who can redeem from Slavery's brand — 
This hopes my Motherland ! 

She hopes in God and Gor-'s protection, 
My suffering Motherland ! 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



<©tto llunflc. 



HOLINESS TO THE LORD. 

There blooms a beautiful Flower ; it blooms 
in a far-off land ; 

Its life has a mystic meaning for few to un- 
derstand. 

Its leaves illumine the valley, its odor. 
scents the wood ; 

And if evil men come near it they grow for 
the moment good. 



When the winds are tranced in slumber, the 

rays of this luminous Flower 
Shed glory more than earthly o'er lake and 

hill and bower ; 
The hut, the hall, the palace, yea, Earth's 

forsakenest sod, 
Shine out in the wondrous lustre that fills 

the Heaven of God. 



Three kings came once to a hostel, wherein 

lay the Flower so rare : 
A star 6hone over its roof, and they knelt 

adoring there. 
Whenever thou seest a damsel whose youn 

eyes dazzle and win, 
Oh, pray that her heart may cherish this 

Flower of Flowers within 1 



$.%. iHtahtmamt. 



THE GRAVE, THE GRAVE. 

Blest are the Dormant 

In Death ! They repose 

From Bondage and Torment, 

From Passions and Woes, 

From the yoke of the world and the snares 

of the traitor : 
The Grave, the Grave, is the true Liberator! 



Griefs chase one another 

Around the Earth's dcme; 
In the arms of the Mother' 
Alone is our home. 
Woo Pleasure, ye triflers ! The Thoughtful 

are wiser: 

The Grave, the Grave, is their one Tranquil- 
lizer ! 

Is the good man unfriended 

On Life's ocean-path, 
Where storms have expended 
Their turbulent wrath ? 
Are his labors requited by Slander and Ran- 

cor? 
The Grave, the Grave, is his sure bower- 
anchor ! 

To gaze on the faces 
Of Lost ones anew, — 
To lock in embraces 

The Loved and the True, 
Were a rapture to make even Paradise 

brighter: 
The Grave, the Grave, is the great Reuniter t 

Crown the corpse then with laurels, 

The conqueror's wreath, 
Make joyous with carols 
The Chamber of Death, 
And welcome the Victor with cymbal and 

psalter : 
The Grave, the Grave, is the only Exalter ! 



von dtoethe. 



THE MINSTREL. 

" What voice, what harp, are those we hear 

Beyond the gate in' chorus ? 
Go, page ! — the lay delights our ear, 

We'll have it sung before us ! " 
So speaks the king : the stripling flies. 
He soon returns ; his master cries — 

" Bring in the hoary minstrel ! " 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



" Hail, princess mine ! Hail, noble knights ! 

All hail, enchanting dames ! 
What starry heaven ! What blinding lights ! 

Whose tongue may tell their names ? 
In this bright hall, amid this blaze, 
Close, close, mine eyes ! Ye may not gaze 

On such stupendous glories ! " 

The Minnesinger closed his eyes : 

He struck his mighty lyre : 
Then beauteous bosoms heaved with sighs, 

And warriors felt on fire ; 
The king, enraptured by the strain, 
Commanded that a golden chain 

Be given the bard in guerdon. 

" Not so ! Reserve thy chain, thy gold, 
For those brave knights whose glances, 

Fierce flashing through the battle bold, 

Might shiver sharpest lances ! 

Bestow it on thy Treasurer there — 

The golden burden let him bear 
With other glittering burdens. 

" I sing as in the greenwood bush 
The cageless wild-bird carols — 

The tcmes that from the full heart gush 
Themselves are gold and laurels ! 

Yet, might 1 ask, then thus I ask, 

Let one bright cup of wine in flask 
Of glowing gold be brought me ! " 

They set it down : he quaffs it all — 
" Oh ! draught of richest flavor ! 

Oh ! thrice divinely happy hall, 
Where that is scarce a favor ! 

If Heaven shall bless ye, think on me, 

And thank your God as I thank ye 
For this delicious wine-cup ! " 



Once a boy beheld a bright 
Rose in dingle growing; 

Far, far off it pleased his sight ; 

Near he view'd it with delight : 
Soft it seemed and glowing. 

Lo ! the rose, the rose so bright, 
Rose so brightly blowing ! 



Spake the boy, " I'll pluck thee, grand 

Rose all wildly blowing." 
Spake the rose, " I'll wound thy hand, 
Thus the scheme thy wit hath plann'd. 

Deftly overthrowing." 
Oh ! the rose, the r^se so grand, 

Rose so grandly glowing. 

But the stripling pluck'd the red 

Rose in glory growing, 
And the thorn his flesh hath bled, 
And the rose's pride is fled, 

And her beauty's going. 
Woe ! the rose, the rose once red, 

Rose once redly glowing. 



A VOICE PROM THE INVISIBLE WORLD 

High o'er his mouldering castle walls 

The warrior's phantom glides, 
And loudly to the skiff it calls 
That on the billow rides — 

" Behold ! these arms once vaunted might, 
This heart beat wild and bold — 

Behold ! these ducal veins ran bi-ight 
With wine-red blood of old. 

" The noon in storm, the eve in rest, 

So sped my life's brief day. 
What then ? Young bark on Ocean's breast. 

Cleave thou thy destined way ! " 



A SONG FROM THE COPTIC. 

Quaeeels have long been in vogue among 
sages ; 
Still, though in many things wranglers and 
rancorous. 
AU the philosopher-scribes of all ages 

Join, and voce, on one point to anchor us. 
Here is the gist of their mystified pages, 

Here is the wisdom we purchase with gold : 
Children of Light, leave the viorld to its 

mulishness, 
Things to their natures, and fools to their 



Berries were bitter in forests of old. 



308 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



Hoary old Merlin, that great necromancer, 
Made me, a student, a similar answer, 
When I besought him for light and for 
lore : 
Toiler in vain ! leave the world to its mulish- 

ness, 
Things to their natures, and fools to their 



Granite was hard in the quarries of yore. 

And on the ice-crested heights of Armenia, 
And in the valleys of broad Abyssinia, 
Still spake the Oracle just as before : 
Wouldst thou have peace, leave the world to 

its mulishness, 
Things to their natures, and fools to their 
foolishness ; 
Beetles were blind in the ages of gore. 



ANOTHER COPTIC SONG. 

Go ! — but heed and understand 
This my last and best command : 
Turn thine Youth to such advantage 
As that no reverse shall daunt Age. 
Learn the serpent's wisdom early ; 
And contemn what Time destroys; 
Also, wouldst thou creep or climb, 
Choose thy role, and choose in time, 
Since the scales of Fortune rarely 
Show a liberal equipoise. 
Thou must either soar or stoop, 
Fall or triumph, stand or droop ; 
Thou must either serve or govern, 
Must be slave, or must be sovereign j 
3fust, in fine, be block or wedge, 
Must be anvil or be sledge. 



$mMth (Sflttlieb itoptoiift. 



[One night, in 1748, Klopbtook, was seated alone in his 
room in the University at Leipsic. He was deeply immersed 
In meditation on the Past and the Future. Suddenly a thought, 
Isolated and dreary in its character, appears to have taken 
possession of his mind. He fancied that some nnknown in- 
dividual had been reft by death of his nearest and dearest, of 



all his friends and his beloved, and stood alone in th« 
world. Involuntarily his imagination called up and marshal- 
led before him the Appearances of the Departed. Tbey came, 
a shrouded and shadowy group, and surrounded the Iyiving 
Man ; and then it was that the poet, as he earnestly contem- 
plated them, found that he bad snlTered a forfeiture of his 
proper identity ; for he himself was now that other Man, and 
the Appearances he gazed on wore the forms and lineaments 
of his own literary friends. The vision lasted but a brief 
while, and when the spell was broken, Klofstock started as 
from a dream ; bnt so vivid was the impression that remained 
with him, that he ever afterward regarded what he had seen 
as a kind of pictorial revelation, a prophetical flgure-history 
of his own destiny. We are now to fancy him over a flask of 
wine with his fellow-student Johann Arnold Ebert. With 
every glass their gayety grows wilder and wilder. Suddenly 
Elopstock covers his face with his hands : the recollection 
of his vision has intervened, and brings with it gloom and 
anguish.] 

TO EBERT. 

Ebert, Ebert, my friend ! • Here over the 
dark-bright wine 
A horrible phantasy masters me ! 
In vain thou showest me where the chalice- 
glasses shine, 
In vain thy words ring cheerily: 
I must aside and weep — if haply my weep- 
ing may 
Assuage this agony of distress. 
Oh, tears ! in pity Nature blent you with hu- 
man clay, 
To mitigate human wretchedness ; 
For, were your fountain uplocked, and yon 
forbidden to flow, 
Could Man sustain his sorrows an hour? 
Then let me aside and weep : this thought 
of dolor and woe 
Struggles within me with giant power. 

O, Ebert ! if all have perished, and under 
shroud and pall 
Lie still and voiceless in Death's abyss ; 
If thou and 1 be the lone and withered sur- 
vivors of all ? 
Art not thou, also, speechless at this ? 
Glazes not horror thine eye ? Glares it not 
blank without soul ? 
So from mine, too, departed the light, 
When first this harrowing phantom over the 
purple bowl 
Struck my spirit with tbundermight. 
Sudden as when a wanderer, hastening home 
to the faces 
That circle with smiles his joyous hearth, 
To his blooming offspring and spouse, whom 
already in thought he embraces, 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



By the tempest-bolt is fell'd to the earth, 
Death-stricken, so that his hones are blasted 
to blackest ashes, 
The while in triumph is heard to roll 
The booming thunder through Heaven, so 
suddenly flash'd, so flashes 
This vision athwart my shuddering soul, 
Deadening the might of mine arm, and dark- 
ening the light of mine eyes, 
And shrivelling the flesh of my heart with 



Oh ! in the depth of the Night I saw the Death- 
Pageant arise ! 
And — Ebert !— the souls of our friends 
were there. 
Oh! in the depths of the Night I saw the 
Graves laid bare ! 
Around me throng'd the immortal Band !, 



When gentle Giseke's eye no longer lustre 
shall wear ; 
When faithful Cramer, lost to our land, 
Shall moulder in dust ; when the words that 
Gaertner and Rabner have 
spoken 
Shall only be echo'd through years in dis- 
tance ; 
When every sweetly-sounding chord shall be 
ruefully broken 
In the noble Gbllert's harmonious exist- 
ence; 
When his early companions of pleasure 
young Rotiie, the social and bright, 
Shall meet on the charnel chamber-floor, 
And when from a longer exile 1 ingenious 
Schlegel shall write 
To the cherisb'd friends of his youth no 
more; 
When for Schmidt, the beloved and evan- 
ished, these weariful eyes shall weep 
No longer their wonted affectionate rain ; 
When Hagedorn at last in our Father's 
bosom shall sleep ; 



1 Schlegel, on quitting college, had gone to Strehla, and 
there established an academy, from whence he corresponded 
with his friends, the members of the Poetical club at Leipzig. 
This residence of his at Strehla they were playfully wont to 
designate his exile. By longer exile, Klopstock, of course, 
means Death. 



Oh, Ebert ! what then are We who remain ? 
What but Woe-consecrated, whom here a 
dreary doom 
Has left to mourn for those that are gone ? 
If then one of us should die (Behold how my 
thought of gloom 
Further and darklier hurries me on !) 
If then, of us, one should die, and One alone 
should survive — 
And oh, should that sad survivor be I — 
If she, the unknown Beloved, with whom I 
am destined to wive, 
If she, too, under the mould should lie ! 



If I be the Only, the Lonely, the earth's 
companionless One, ' 
Oh, answer ! Shalt thou, my undying soul, 
For friendship created, shalt thou preserve 
thy feeling and tone, 
In the days that then may vacantly roll ? 
Or shalt thou, in slumberfhl stupor, imagine 
that Daylight is pass'd, 
And the reign of Night has begun for thee ? 
Haply ! but should st thou up start, oh, im- 
mortal spirit, at last, 
And feel all the weight of thy misery, 
Wilt thou not, suffering spirit, in agony 
shriekingly call 
To the sepulchres where thy Sleepers are — ■ 
" Oh ! ye graves of my Dead ! Ye tombs of 
my dearest ones all ! 
Why are ye severed apart so far ? 
Why not rather ingrouped in the blossomy 
valleys yonder, 
Or cluster'd in groves, or flower-crown'd? 
Guide an expiring old man ! With faltering 
feet will I wander 
And plant upon every hallow'd mound 
A cypress-tree, beneath whose yet undark- 
ening shade 
May rest my happier daughters and sons, 
And oft through its boughs at night shall 
stand before me portray'd 
The effigies of my immortal ones ! 
Till, worn with weeping, I too shall finally 
join those immortals ; 
Then, oh ! Grave, beside which I snail be ! 
Grave over which I shall die! — I call on 
thee — open thy portals, 
And hide forever my tears and me !" 



300 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



Horrible dream ! from which, as in chains, I 
struggle to waken, 
Terrible as the Judgment-hour, 
And as Eternity solemn ! My spirit, appall'd 
and shaken, 
Can wrestle no longer against thy power. 



krder. 



THE BROTHER AND THE SISTER 



In a winding dell, thick-sown with 
Often play'd together, through the hours 
Of the livelong sunny Summer's day, 
Two most lovely children — one a boy, 
One a girl, a sister and a brother ; 
And along with them did ever play 
Innocence, and Gracefulness, and Joy. 
Here there stood an image of the 
Mother 
Of our Blessed Saviour, with her Child 
In her urms, who always look'd and smiled 
On the playmates. And their own 
dear mother 
One day told them, after they had play'd, 

Who the smiling little Infant was ; 
How He was the mighty God, who made 
Sun, and Moon, and Earth, and the green 
grass, 
And themselves; and, when she saw them 
moved 
With deep reverence, and their childish 
mirth 
Hush'd, she told them how this God had 
loved 
Little children when He dwell'd on Earth, 
And that now in Heaven He loved them still. 
And the little girl said, " I and brother 
Both love God : will He love us, too, 
mother ? " 
And the mother said, " If you be good, He 
will." 

So upon another time, a bland, 

Bright, soft, Summer-evening, as the fair 
Children sat together hand in hand, 



One said to the other ('twas the boy 

To the girl), " Oh, if the dear God there 
Would come down to us ! There's not a toy 
In our house but I would give to Him." 
And the girl said, " I would cull Him all 
Pretty flowers." " And I would climb the 
tall 
Trees," the boy said, " till the day grew dim, 
And would gather fruits for Him." And thus 
Each sweet child did prattle to the other, 

Till the sun sank low behind the hill, 
And both, running, then sought out their 
mother, 
And cried out together, " Mother ! — will 
God come down some day and play with us ?" 

Gently spake the mother in rebuke 

Of their babble ; but it bore a deep 
Meaning in the eternal Minute-book ; 

For, one night, soon after, in her sleep, 
She beheld the Infant-Saviour playing 
With her children and she heard Him saying, 
" How shall I requite you for the flowers 

And the fruits you would have given 
me ? Thee, 

Brother, will I take along with me, 

To my Father's many-mansion'd Home, 
And will guide thee to luxuriant bowers, 

Where bloom fruits unknown on Earth be- 
neath ; 
And to thee, my sister, will I come 

On thy bridal-day, and with a wreath 
Of celestial flowers adorn thy brow, 
And will bless thy nuptials, so that thou 
Shalt have children good and innocent even 
As my Father's angels are in Heaven." 

And the mother woke, and pray'd with tears, 
" Oh, my God ! my Saviour ! spare my son ! 

Spare him to console my waning years, 
If thou canst ! If not, thy will be done !** 

And the will of God was done. The boy 
Sicken'd soon and died. But, ere he died 
Those about him saw his countenance 
Lighted up with gloriousness and joy 
Inexpressible ; for by his side 

He beheld (rapt all the while in trance, 
As his mother noticed) a young Child 
Brighter than the sun and beauteous as 
God Himself! 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



Tear after year did pass, ! 

And at length her twentieth Summer smiled 
On the maiden with her wedding-day ; 
But behold ! — as she knelt down to pray 
At the altar, heavenly radiance heam'd 
Round her, and she saw, as though she 

dream'd, 
Him, her childhood's Infant-Saviour, reaching 

Her a wreath of brilliant flowers, with some 
Dark ones intermix'd : a symbol, teaching 

Her what hue the years that were to come 
Should assume for her. And truly, she 

Spent a life of peace and blessedness, 
Mingled with such mild adversity 

That she rather wish'd it more than less. 



Ofrdge. 



THE FIELD OF KUNNERSDORF. 1 

Day is exiled from the Land of Twilight ; 

Leaf and flower are drooping in the wood, 
And the stars, as on a dark-stain'd skylight, 

Glass their ancient glory in the flood. 
Let me here, where night-winds through the 
yew sing, 

Where the moon is chary of her beams, 
Consecrate an hour to mournful musing 

Over Man and Man's delirious dreams. 
Pines and yews ! envelop me in deeper, 

Dunner shadow, sombre as the grave, 
While with moans, as of a troubled sleeper, 

Gloomily above my head ye wave ; 
Let mine eye look down from hence on yonder 

Battle-plain, which Night in pity dulls ; 
Let my sad imagination ponder 

Over Kunnersdorf, that Place of Skulls ! 

Dost thou reillume those wastes, O Summer ? 

Hast thou raised anew thy trampled bow 
ers? 
Will the wild bee come again a hummer 

Here, within the houses of thy flowers ? 



1 fCunnersdorf, a village near Frankfort on the Oder, where 
Frederick was defeated by the Russians, on the 12th of Au- 
gust. 1759, in one of the bloodiest battles of modern times. 



Can thy sunbeams light, thy mild rains water 
This Aeeldema, this human soil, 

Since that dark day of redundant slaughter 
When the blood of men flow'd here like 
oil? 

Ah, yes ! — Nature, and thou, God of Nature, 
Ye are ever bounteous !. Man alone, 

Man it is whose frenzies desolate your 

World, and make it in sad truth his own. 

Here saw Frederick fall his bravest warriors : 

Master of thy World, thou wert too great ! 
Heaven had need to establish curbing-b&r- 
riers 

'Gainst thine inroads on the World of Fate. 
Oh, could all thy coronals of splendor 

Dupe thy memory of that ghastly day? 
Could the Graces, could the Muses" render 

Smooth and bright a corse-o'ercover'd 
way? 
No ! the accusing blood-beads ever trickle 

Down each red leaf of thy chaplet-crown : 
Men fell here as corn before the sickle, 

Fell to aggrandize thy false renown I 
Here the veteran dropp'd beside the spring 
aid; 

Here sank Strength and Symmetry in line : 
Here crush'd Hope and gasping Valor min- 
gled; 

And, Destroyer, the wild work was thine ! 
Whence is then this destiny funereal ? 

What this tide of Being's flow and ebb ? 
Why rends Death at will the fine material 

Of Existence's diyinest web ? 
Vainly ask we ! Dim age calls to dim age ; 

Answer, save an echo, cometh none : 
Mere stands Man, of Life-in-Death an image, 

There, invisibly, the Living One ! 

Storm-clouds lower and muster in the Dis- 
tance ; 
Girt with wrecks by sea and wrecks by 
land, 
Time, upon the far Shore of Existence, 
Counts each wave-drop swallow'd by the 
sand. 
Generation chases generation, 
Down-bow'd by the all-worn, Mworn 
yoke :* 



POEMS m r JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 






No cessation and no explication ! — 
Birth— Life— Death ! — the Silence, Flash, 
and Smoke. 

Here, then, Frederick, formidable sovereign ! 

Here, in presence of these whiten'd bones, 
Swear at length to cherish Peace, and govern 

So that men may learn to reverence 
thrones ! 
Oh, repudiate blood-bought fame, and 
hearken 

To the myriad witness-voiced Dead, 
Ere the Sternness shall lay down, to darken 

In the Silentness, thy crownless head ! * 
Shudder at the dire phantasmagory 

Of the slain, who perish'd here through 
thee; 
And abhor all future wreaths of glory 

Gather'd from the baleful cypress-tree ! 

Lofty souls disdain or dread the laurel : 

Hero is a mad exchange for Man : 
Adders lurk in green spots : such the moral 

Taught by History since her schools began. 
Caesar slain, the victim of his trophies, 

Bajazet expiring in his cage, 
All the Cassars, all the sabre-Sophies,' 

Preach the self-same homily each age. 
One drugg'd wine-cup dealt with Alexander, 

And his satraps scarce had shared afresh 
Half the empires of the World-commander, 

Ere the charnel-worms had shared his flesh. 



Though the rill roll down from Life's green 
Mountain, 
Bright through festal dells of youthful 
days, 
Soon the water of that glancing fountain 
In the vale of years must moult its rays. 



: Vor dera Emste, der dein Haupt, entfttretet, 
In die Stille niederlegen wird. 
Before to the Solemn who thy head, unprinced, in the Stilly 
beneath lay shall, viz., Before the [coming of the] solemn 
[hour] which shall lay thy head, stripped of its royalty, in the 
etiU [ness of the grave.] I have adhered to the metonymy, 
save that I have chosen to make der Ernste represent Death 
himself rather than the time of death ; the Sternness, there- 
lore, is Death, and the Silentness the grave. 
" Sop/ii, a title of the Khan of Persia. 

By this scymitar 
That flew the Sophy and a Persian prince, 
And won three fields of Sultan Solyman. 

Mfrch. of Yen. Act. II. te, . 



There the pilgrim on the bridge that, bound- 
ing 

Life's domain, frontiers the wold of Death, 
Startled, for the first time hears resounding 

From Eternity, a voice that saith, — 
All which is not pure shall melt anb 

WITHER. 
Lo ! THE DeSOLATOr's ARM 18 BARE, 

And where Man is, Truth shall track 
htm thither, 
Be he curtain'd round with GLOOM OB 

GLARE.' 



3 uMq f einriclt ©hratogh fo<% 



THE AGED LANDMAN'S ADVICE TO HIS 
SON. 

Oh ! cherish Faith and Truth, til' Death 

Shall claim thy forfeit clay, 
And wander not one finger's breadth 

From God's appointed way ; 
So shall thy pilgrim pathway be 

O'er flowers that brightly bloom ; 
So shalt thou, rich in hope and free 

From terror face the tomb ; 
Then wilt thou handle spade and scythe, 

With joyous heart and soul ; 
Thy water-jug shall make thee blithe 

As brimming purple bowl. 

All things but work the sinner woe, 

For, do his worst or best, 
The devil drives him to and fro, 

And never lets him rest. 
Him glads no Spring, no sky outroll'd, 

No mellow, yellow field ; 
His one sole good and god is gold ; 

His heart is warp'd and steel'd ; 
The winds that blow, the streams that flow 

Affright the craven slave ; 
Peace flies him, and he does not know 

Rest even in his grave ! 



' Was niobt rein ist, wird in Nacht i 
Dbs Vercesters Hand ist ausoestreckt ; 
Und die Wahrheit wird den Menschen finden, 
Ob ms Donkel oder Glanz vebsteckt 1 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



For he when spectral midnight reigns, 

Must burst each coffin-band, 
And as a pitch-black dog in chains 

Before his house-door stand. 
The spinners, who with wheel on arm 

Belated home repair, 
Will quake, and cross themselves from harm 

To see the monster there ; 
And every spinning crone of this 

Terrific sight will tell, 
And wish the villain in the abyss 

And fire of hottest hell. 

Old Grimes was all his life a hound, 

A genuine devil's brand ; 
He counter-plough'd his neighbors' ground ; 

And robb'd them of their land : 
Now, fire-clad, see him plough with toil 

The same land everywhere, 
Upturning all night long the soil, 

With white-hot burning share : 
Himself like blazing straw-sheaf burns 

Behind the glowing plough ; 
And so he burns and so upturns, 

Till Morning bares her brow. 

The bailie who, without remorse, 

Shot stags and fleeced the poor, 
AVith one grim dog, on fiery horse, 

Hunts nightly o'er the moor ; 
Oft, as a rugged-coated bear, 

He climbs a gnarled pole ; 
Oft, as a goat, must leave his lair, 

And through the hamlet stroll. 

The riot-loving priest who cramm'd 

His chests with ill-got gold, 
Still haunts the chancel, black and damn'd, 

Each night when twelve has toll'd ; 
He howls aloud with dismal yells, 

That startle aisle and fanes, 
Or in the vestry darkly tells 

His church-accursed gains. 

The squire who drank and gamed pell-mell 

The helpless widow's all, 
Now driven along by blasts from Hell, 

Goes coach'd to Satan's ball ; 
His blue frock, dipp'd in Hell's foul font, 

With sulphur-flames is lined ; 
One devil holds the reins in front, 

Two devils ride behind. 



Then, Son ! be just and true till Death 

Shall claim thy forfeit clay ; 
And wander not one finger's breadth 

From God's revealed way. 
So shall warm tears bedew in showers 

The grass above thy head, 
And lilies and all odorous flowers 

O'erarch thy last low bed. 



lUwrftert. 



AND THEN NO MORE. 

I saw her once, one little while, and then no 
more: 

'Twas Eden's light on Earth awhile, and; 
then no more. 

Amid the throng she pass'd along the mea- 
dow-floor : 

Spring seem'd to smile on Earth awhile, and 
then no more. 

But whence she came, which way she went, 
what garb she wore, 

I noted not ; I gazed awhile, and then no 
more. 

I saw her once, one little while, and then no 
more : 

'Twas Paradise on Earth awhile, and then no 
more: 

Ah ! what avail my vigils pale, my magic 
lore ? 

She shone before mine eyes awhile, and then 
no more. 

The shallop of my peace is wreck'd on Beau- 
ty's shore ; 

Near Hope's fair isle it rode awhile, and 
then no more ! 

I saw her once, one little while, and then no 

more : 
Earth look'd like Heaven a little while, and 

then no more. 
Her presence thrill'd and lighted to its inner 

core 
My desert breast a little while, and then no 

more. 



8«4 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



So may, perchance, a meteor glance at mid- 
night o'er 

Some ruin'd pile a little while, and then no 
more ! 

I saw her once, one little while, and then no 
more, 

The earth was Peri-land awhile, and then no 
more. 

Oh, might I see but once again, as once be- 
fore, 

Through chance or wile, that shape awhile, 
and then no more ! 

Death soon would heal my griefs ! This 
heart, now sad and sore, 

Would beat anew a little while, and then no 



THE CATHEDRAL OP COLOGNE. 

The Dome, the Dome of Cologne ! 

Antique, unique, sublime — 

Rare monument from the elder time, 
Begun so long agone, 

Yet never finish'd, though wrought at 
oft- 
Yonder it soars alone, 

Alone, aloft, 

Blending the weird, and stern, and soft, 
The Cathedral-dome of Cologne ! 

The Dome, the Dome of Cologne ! 

Whence came its Meister's plan ? 

Before or since to the eye of man 
Was never aught like it shown ! 

Alas ! the matchless Meister died ! 
Alas ! he died ! — and none 

Thereafter tried 

To fathom the mystery typified 
By the marvellous Dome of Cologne! 

The Dome, the Dome of Cologne! 

In the troublesome times of old 

The soldier alone won fame and gold — 
The artist pass'd for a drone ! 

War's hurricanes rock'd and wasted 
earth ; 
Men battled for shrine or throne ; 

None sat by his hearth 

To ponder the means of a second birth 
For the holy Dome of Cologne ! 



The Dome, the Dome of Cologne ! 

To God be immortal praise 

That now at length, in our own bright 
days, 
The Meister's plan is known! 

Research hath brought the relic to light 
From its mausoleum of stone — 

We hail with delight 

A treasure so long conceal'd from sight, 
The original Dome of Cologne! 

The Dome, the Dome of Cologne ! 

Its hour of glory is nigh ! 

Build ye it high as the sapphire sky!. 
As the moonlight never hath shone 

On Temple of such a magnificent 
Ideal from zone to zone, 

So, aid its ascent 

To the sapphire blue of the firmament, 
The Cathedral-dome of Cologne ! 



Jriedriclt faron §e in gRoty Jouque. 



BALE AND HIGH-WAY. 

In a shady dell a Shepherd sate, 
And by his side was the fairest mate ! 
The hearts of both the youth and maiden 
With love were laden and overladen. 

And, as they spake with tongue and eye, 
A weary wandering man rode by ; 
A swarthy wayfarer, worn with travel, 
Rode wearily over the burning gravel. 

" Down hither, and rest thee, thou Weary 

One! 
Why ride at noon in the scorching sun ? 
Rest here in this dell, so cool and darkling 
That even the rivulets run unsparkling. 

" And I and the maiden thou seest with me 
Will gather the palest flowers for thee, 
And weave them in'o as pale a garland 
As wreathes the brow of a fay from Star- 
land." 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



365 



So spake the Shepherd, all cool in the shade, 

And thus the Wanderer answer made : 

" Though the way be long and the noon be 

burning, 
I ride unresting and unreturning : 

" For I was false to my vows, and sold 
The early love of my heart for gold; 
So dare I seek Rest and Happiness never, 
But only Geld for ever and ever! 

" No flowers for me, until Pity's tears 

Bedew the few that in after-years 

May droop where the winds shall be nightly 

telling 
How low I lie in my last dark dwelling ! " 



A SIGH. 



Fake-thee-sweetly, Touthhood's time, 
Golden time of Love and Singing ! 

Hope and Joy were in their prime 

Only when thy flowers were springing. 

AH thy voiceful soul is mute, 

Thou hast dream'd thy dream of glory : 
Scarcely now can lyre or lute 

Wake one echo of thy story ! 

Ah ! the heart is but a grave, 
Late or soon, for young Affection. 

There the Love that Nature gave 
Sleeps, to know no resurrection. 

This our sons will echo long ; 

This our sires have sung before us ; 
Join, then, we the shadowy throng ! 

Swell, then, we the spectral chorus ! 



Jjpdmand Jrtfliflratft. 



THE SHEIK OP MOUNT SINAI. 

A NARRATIVE OF OCTOBER, 1830. 

" How sayest thou ? Came to-day the Car- 
avan 
From Africa? And is it here !— 'Tis well ! 
bear me beyond the tent, me and mine otto- 



I would myself behold it. I feel eager 
To learn the youngest news. As the Ga- 
zelle 
Rushes to drink will I to hear, and 
gather thence fresh vigor." 

So spake the Sheik. They bore him forth ; 
and thus began the Moor — 
" Old man ! Upon Algeria's towers the 
Tricouleur is flying ! 
Bright silks of Lyons rustle at each balcony 
and door; 
In the streets the loud Reveil resounds 
at break of day : 

prance to the Marseillaise o'er 
heaps of Dead and Dying. 
The Franks came from Toulon, men say. 



" Southward their legions march'd through 
burning lands; 
The Barbary sun flash'd on their arms — 
about 
Their chargers' manes were blown clouds oi 
Tunisiau sands. 
Knowest where the Giant Atlas rises 
dim in 
The hot sky ? Thither, in disastrous rout, 
The wild Kabyles fled with their herds 
and women. 



"The Franks pursued. Hu Allah! — each 
defile 
Grew a very hell-gulf, then, with smoke, 
and fire, and bomb ! 
The Lion left the Deer's half-cranch'd re- 
mains the while ; 
He snufFd upon the winds a daintier 
prey! 
Hark ! the shout, En avant! To the top- 
most peak upclomb 
The conquerors in that bloody fray ! 



" Circles of glittering bayonets crown'd the 
mountain's height. 
The hundred Cities of the Plain, from At- 
las to the sea afar, 

From Tunis forth to Fez, shone in the noon- 
day light. 



FOEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



< 



The spearmen rested by their steeds, or 
slaked their thirst at rivulets : 
And round them through dark myrtles 
burn'd, — each like a star, — 

The slender golden minarets. 

" But in the valley blooms the odorous Al- 
mond-tree, 
And the Aloe blossoms on the rock, defy- 
ing storms and suns. 
Here was their conquest seal'd. Look ! — 
yonder heaves the sea, 
And far to the left lies Franquistan. 
The banners flouted the blue skies. 
The artillerymen came up. Mashallah ! 
how the guns 
Did roar to sanctify their prize !" 

" 'Tis they !" the Sheik exclaim'd : " I fought 
among them, I, 
At the Battle of the Pyramids ! Red all 
the long day ran, 
Red as thy turban-folds, the Nile's high bil- 
lows by ! 
But their Sultaun? — Speak! — He was 
once my guest. 
His lineaments, — gait, — garb ? Sawest 
thou the Man ?" — 
The Moor's hand slowly felt its way in- 
to his breast. 

" J¥o" he replied : " he bode in his warm 
palace-halls. 
A Pasha led his warriors through the fire 
of hostile ranks; 
An Aga thunder'd for him before Atlas' 
iron walls ! 
His lineaments, thou sayest? On gold, 
at least, they lack 
The kingly stamp. See here ! A Spahi 
of the Franks 
Gave me this coin in chaffering some 
days back." 

The Kashef took the gold: he gazed upon 

the head and face. 
Was this the great Sultaun he had known 

long years ago ? 
It seem'd not ; for he sigh'd as all in vain 

he strove to trace 



The still-remember'd features. "Ah, 

no ! — this," he said, " is 
Not his broad brow and piercing eye: 

who this man is I do not know. 
How very like a Pear his head ia 1" 



GRABBE. 



There stood I in the Camp. 'Twas when 

the setting sun 
Was crimsoning the tents of the Hussars. 
The booming of the Evening-gun 

Broke on mine ear. A few stray stars 
Shone out, like silver-blank medallions 
Paving a sapphire floor. Then flow'd in 

unison the tones 
Of many hautboys, bugles, drums, trom- 
bones 
And fifes, from twenty-two battalions. 

They play'd, "Give glory unto God our 
Lord ! " 
A solemn strain of music and sublime, 
That bade Imagination hail a coming time 
When universal Mind shall break the slaying 
sword, 
And Sin, and Wrong, and Suffering shall 
depart 
An Earth which Christian love shall turn to 
Heaven. 
A dream! — yet still I listen'd, and my 
heart 
Grew tranquil as that Summer-even. 

But soon uprose pale Hecate — she who 
trances 
The skies with deathly light. Her beams 
fell wan, but mild, 
On the long lines of tents, on swords and 
lances, - 
And on the pyramids of musquets piled 
Around. Then sped from rank to rani 
The signal order, " Tzako ab I " The 

music ceased to play. 
The stillness of the grave ensued. 1 1 arned 
away. 
Again my memory's tablets show'd a sad- 
dening blank I 






POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



Meanwhile another sort of scene 

Was acted at the Outposts. Carelessly I 
stroll'd, 
Iii quest of certain faces, into the Canteen. 

Here wine and brandy, hot or cold, 
Pass'd round. At one long table Freder- 
icks-d'or 
Glitter'd d qui mieux mieux with epau- 
lettes, 
And, heedless of the constant call, " Who 
sets?" 
Harpwomen play'd and sang old ballads by 
the score. 



1 sought an inner chamber. Here sat some 
Dragoons and Yagers, who conversed, or 
gambled, 
Or drank. The dice-box rattled on a drum. 
I chose a seat apart. My speculations 
rambled. 
Scarce even a passive listener or beholder, 

I mused : " Give glory " " Qui en 

veut ? "—the sound 
Came from the drum-head. I had half 
turn'd round 
When some one touch'd me on the shoulder. 



" Ha ! — is it you ? " " None other." " Well 
— what news ? 
How. goes it in Mulhausen?" Queries 
without end 
Succeed, and I reply as briefly as I choose, 
An hour flies by. " Now then, adieu, my 
friend ! " — 

"Stay! — tell me " "Quick! I am off| 

to Rouge et JVbir." — / 

" Well — one short word, and then Good- 
Night !— 
Grabbe f "— " Grabbe ? He is dead. Wait : 

let me see. Ay, right ! 
We buried him on Friday last. Bon soirP' 



An icy thrill ran through my veins. 
Dead ! Buried ! .Friday last ! — and here ! 

— Sis grave 
Profaned by vulgar feet ! Oh, Noble, 

Gifted, Brave ! 



Bard of The Hundred Days /' — was this to 

be thy fate indeed ? 
I wept ; yet not because Life's galling chains 
No longer bound thy spirit to this barren 

earth; 
I wept to think of thy transcendent worth 
And genius — and of what had been their 
meed. 

I wander'd forth into the spacious Night, 
Till the first feelings of my heart had spent 
Their bitterness. Hours pass'd. There 
was an Uhlan tent 
At hand. I enter'd. By the moon's blue 
light 
I saw some arms and baggage and a heap 
Of straw. Upon this last I threw 
My weary limbs. In vain ! The moanful 
night-winds blew 
About my head and face, and Memory 
banish'd Sleep. 

All night he stood, as I had seen him last, 
Beside my couch. Had he indeed forsaken 
The tomb ? Or, did I dream, and should 
I waken? 
My thoughts flow'd like a river, dark and fast. 

Again I gazed on that columnar brow : 
"Deserted House! of late so bright with 
vividest flashes 
Of Intellect and Passion, can it be that 
thou 
Art now a mass of sparkless ashes ? 

" Those ashes once were watch-fires, by 
whose gleams 
The glories of the Hohenstauffen race," 
And Italy's shrines, and Greece's hallowM 
streams 
Stood variously reveal'd — now, softly, as 
the face 
Of Night illumined by her silver Lamp — 
Now, burning with a deep and living 
lustre, , 
Like the high beacon-lights that stud this 
Camp, 
Here, far apart — there, in a circular cluster. 



• A poem by Grabbe thus entitled. 

'The allusions are to Qra v i>e's historical and illustrate v» 
works. 



368 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



"This Camp! Ah, yes! methinks it images 
well 
What thou hast been, thou lonely Tower! 
Moonbeams and lamplight mingled — the 
deep ohoral swell 
Of Music in her peals of proudest power, 
And then — the tavern diee-box rattle ! 
The Grand and the Familiar fought 
Within thee for the mastery ; and thy 
depth of thought 
And play of wit made every conflict a drawn 
battle ! 



" And, oh ! that such a mind, so rich, so 
overflowing 
With ancient lore and modern phantasy, 
And prodigal of its treasures as a tree 
Of golden leaves when Autumn-winds are 
blowing, 
That such a mind, made to illume and glad 
All minds, all hearts, should have itself be- 
come 
Affliction's chosen Sanctuary and Home ! — 
This is in truth most marvellous and sad ! 



"Alone the Poet lives — alone he dies. 

Cain-like, he bears the isolating brand 

Upon his brow of sorrow. True, his hand 
Is pure from blood-guilt, but in human eyes 

His is a darker crime than that of Cain. 
Rebellion against Social Wrong and Law ! " 
Groaning, at length I slept, and in my 
dreams I saw 

The ruins of a Temple on a desolate plain. 



FREEDOM AOT5 RIGHT. 

Oh ! think not the Twain have gone down to 

their graves ! 
Oh ! say not that 'Mankind should basely 

despair, 
Because Earth is yet trodden by tyrants and 

slaves, 
And the sighs of the Noble are spent on 

the air ! 
Oh, no ! though the Pole, from the swamps 

of the North, 



Sees trampled in shreds the bright banner 
he bore ; 
Though Italy's heroes in frenzy pour forth 
The rich blood of their hearts on the dark 
dungeon-floor, 
Still live- 
Ever live in their might 
Both Freedom and Right ! 

Who fight in the van of the battle must fall; 
All honor be theirs ! — 'tis for Us to press on ! 
They have struck the first links from the 
gyves that enthral 
Men's minds ; and the half of our triumph 
is won — 
The swift-coming triumph of Freedom and 
Right ! 
Yes ! tremble, ye Despots ! the hour will 
have birth 
When, as vampires and bats, by the arrows 
of Light, 
Your nature, your names, will be blasted 
from Earth ! 
For still- 
Still live in their might 
Fair Freedom and Right ! 

Gone down to the grave ? No ! if ever their 
breath 
Gave life to the paralyzed nations, 'tis now, 
When the serf at length wakes, as from tor- 
por or death, 
And the sunshine of Hope gleams anew 
on his brow ! 
They traverse the globe in a whirlwind of 
fire — 
They sound their deep trumpet o'er Ocean 
and Land, 
Enkindling in myriads the queuchless desire 
To arm as one man for the Conflict at hand t 
Oh ! still- 
Still live in their might 
Both Freedom and Right ! 

They rouse even dastards to combat and dare, 
Till the last of oppression's bastiles be 
o'erthrown ; 
When they conquer not here, they are con' 
quering elsewhere, 
And ere long they will conquer all Earth 
for their own. 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



Then first 
Peac 



ill be born the Millennium of By mountain and woodland :.i dazes my 
— vision 



And, O God! what a garland will bloom 
in the sun, 
When the oak-leaf of Deutschland, the olive 
of Greece, 
And the trefoil of Ireland are blended in 
one T 

As they will ; 

For still in their might 

Live Freedom and Right ! 

And what, though before that Millennium 
can dawn, 
The bones of our Bravest must bleach on 
the plain ? 
Thank Heaven ! they will feel that the swords 
they have drawn 
Will be sheath'd by the victors, undimm'd 
by a stain ! 
And their names through all time will be 
shrined in each heart 
As the moral Columbuses — they who un- 
furl'd 
That sunbeamy standard that shone as a 
chart 

To illumine our way to the better New 
World ! 



TO THE BELOVED ONE. 

Through pine-grove and greenwood, o'er 

hills and by hollows, 
Thine image my footsteps incessantly follows, 
And sweetly thou smilest, or veilest thine 

eye, 
While floats the white moon up the wastes 

of the sky. 

In the sheen of the fire and the purple of 

dawn 
I see thy light figure in bower and on lawn. 



Like some brilliant shadow itom regions 
Elysian. 

Oft has it, in dreamings, been mine to behold 
Thee, fairy-like, seated on throne of red gold ; 
Oft have I, upborne through Olympus's por- 
tals, 
Beheld thee as Hebe among the Immortals. 

A tone from the valley, a voice from the 

height, 
Re-echoes thy name like the Spirit of Night ; 
The zephyrs that woo the wild flowers on 

the heath 
Are warm with the odorous life of thy breath. 

And oft when in stilliest midnight my soul 
Is borne through the stars to its infinite goal, 
I long to meet thee, my Beloved, on that 

shore 
"Where hearts reunite to be sunder'd no mora 

Joy swiftly departeth; soon vanisheth Sor- 
row; 

Time wheels in a circle of morrow and 
morrow ; 

The sun shall be ashes, the earth waste away, 

But Love shall reign king in his glory for aye. 



Juhann (Sattdeng f anm 0. $atts 



1 O, Gott, welch ein Kranz wird sie Klorreich dann Zieren 1 
Die Olive deB Griechen, das Kieebtatt dee Iren, 
TJnd vor Allem gennanisches Eichengeflecht, 
—Die Freiheit I das Recht ! 



CHEERFULNESS. 

See how the day beameth brightly before us! 

Blue is the firmament — green is the earth ; 
Grief hath no voice in the Universe-chorus — 

Nature is ringing with music and mirth. 
Lift up the looks that are sinking in sadness. 

Gaze ! and if Beauty can capture thy soul, 
Virtue herself will allure thee to gladness — 

Gladness, Philosophy's guerdon and goal. 



3V0 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAK 



Enter the treasuries Pleasure uncloses — 

List ! ho w she thrills in the nightingale's lay ! 
Breathe! Btae is waiting thee sweets from the 
roses ; 
Feel ! she is cool in the rivulet's play ; 
Taste! from the grape and the nectarine 
gushing 
Flows the red rill in the beams of the sun ; 
Green in the hills, in the flower-groves blush- 
ing, 
Look ! she is always and everywhere one. 

Banish, then, mourner, the tears that are 
trickling 

Over the cheeks that should rosily bloom ; 
Why should a man, like a girl or a sickling, 

Suffer his lamp to be quench'd in the tomb? 
Still may we battle for Goodness and Beauty; 

Still hath Philanthropy much to essay: 
•Glory rewards the fulfilment of Duty; 

Rest will pavilion the end of our way. 

What, though corroding and multiplied sor- 
rows, 
Legion-like, darken this planet of ours, 
Hope is a balsam the wounded heart borrows, 
Ever when Anguish hath palsied its 
powers ; 
Wherefore, though Fate play the part of a 
traitor, 
Soar o'er the stars on the pinions of Hope, 
Fearlessly certain that sooner or later 

Over the stars thy desires shall have scope. 

Look round about on the face of Creation ! 
Still is God's Earth undistorted and 
bright ; 
Comfort the captives to long tribulation, 
Thus shalt thou reap the more perfect 
delight. 
Love ! — but if Love be a hallow'd emotion, 

Purity only its rapture should share ; 
Love, then, with willing and deathless emo- 
tion, 
All that is just and exalted and fair. 

Act ! — for in Action are Wisdom and Glory ; 

Fame, Immortality — these are its crown 
Wouldst thou illumine the tablets of Story, 

Build on achixyxmknts thy Dome of Re- 
nown. 



Honor and Feeling were given thee to cher- 
ish, — 
Cherish them, then, though all else should 
decay : 
Landmarks be these that are never to perish, 
Stars that will shine on thy duskiest day. 



Courage ! — Disaster and Peril, once over, 

Freshen the spirit, as showers the grove 
O'er the dim graves that the cypresses cover 

Soon the Forget-Me-Not rises in love. 
Courage, then, friends ! Though the universe 
crumble, 

Innocence, dreadless of danger beneath, 
Patient and trustful and joyous and humble, 

Smiles through the ruin on Darkness and 
Death. 






August JuMgh f udu% gotten. 



FREEDOM. 

RraG, ring, blithe Freedom's Song ! 
Roll forth as water strong 

Down rocks in sheets ! 
Pale stands the Gallic swarm — 
Our hearts beat high and warm — 
Youth nerves the Teuton's arm 

For glorious feats ! 



God ! Father ! to thy praise 
The spirit of old days 

In Deutschland's Youth 
Spreads as a burning brand ! 
We hail the fourfold band ! 
God, Freedom, Fatherland, 

Old German Truth ! 



Pure-tongued and pious be, 
Manful and chaste and free, 

Great Hermann's race ! 
And, while God's judgments light 
On Tyranny's brute might, 
Build We the People's Right 

On Freedom's base ! 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



For now in German 
Fair Freedom manifests 

Her power at length ; 
Her worth is understood ; 
We vow to her our blood ; 
We feel that Brotherhood 

Alone is Strength ! 

Ring, then, glad Song of Zeal, 
Loud as the thunder-peal 

That rooks the sphere ! 
Our hearts, hopes, objects, One, 
Stand we, One Starry Zone, 
And round One Sun, the Throne, 

Be our career! 



Jri^rah SiqjoM ti^tmt ^tottyttg. 



THE GRAVE. 
Life's Day is dark'd with Storm and 111 ; 
The Night of Death is mild and still ; 
The consecrated Grave receives 
Our frames as Earth doth wither'd leaves. 

There sunbeams shine, there dewy showers 
Fall bright as on the garden-bowers ; 
And Friendship's tear-drops, in the ray 
Of Hope, are brighter still than they. 

The Mother 1 from her lampless dome 

Calls out to all, "Come home! Come 

home!" 
Oh ! could we once behold her face, 
We ne'er would shun her dark embrace. 



<fct Porite |Mt. 



THE 'GERMAN'S FATHERLAND 
Whebe is the German's Fatherland ? 
Is't Prussia? Swabia? Is't the strand 
Where grows the vine, where flows the 

Rhine? 
Js't where the -.grill «kims Baltic's brine ? 



— No ! — yet more great and far more grand 
Must be the German's Fatherland. 

How call they then the German's land ? 
Bavaria ? Brunswick ? Hast thou scann'd 
It where the Zuyder Zee extends ? 
Where Styrian toil the iron bends ? 
— No, brother, no ! — thou hast not epann'd 
The German's genuine Fatherland f 

Is then the German's Fatherland 
Westphalia ? Pomerania ? Stand 
Where Zurich's waveless water sleeps ; 
Where Weser winds, where Danube sweeps 
Hast found it now ? — Not yet ! Demand 
Elsewhere the German's Fatherland ' 

Then say, Where lies the German's land ? 
How call they that unconquer'd land ? 
Is't where Tyr61's green mountains r^je ? 
The Switzer's laud I dearly prize, 
By Freedom's purest breezes fann'd- - 
But no ! 'tis not the German's land ! 

Where, therefore, lies the German's land * 
Baptize that great, that ancient land ! 
'Tis surely Austria, proud and bold, 
In wealth unmatch'd, in glory old ? 
Oh ! none shall write her name on sand ; 
But she is not the German's land ? 

Say then, Where lies the German's land ? 
Baptize that great, that ancient land ! 
Is't Alsace ? Or Lorraine — that gem 
Wrench'd from the Imperial Diadem 
By wiles which princely treachery plann'df 
No ! these are not the German's land ! 

Where, therefore, lies the German's land ? 
Name now at last that mighty land ! 
Where'er resounds the German tongue — 
Where German hymns to God are sung — 
There, gallant brother, take thy stand ! 
That is the German's Fatherland ! 

That is his land, the land of lands, 
Where vows bind less than clasped hands, 
Where Valor lights the flashing eye, 
Where Love and Truth in deep hearts lie, 
And Zeal enkindles Freedom's brai-d, — 
That is the German's Fatherland ! 



372 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



That is the German's Fatherland 
Where Hate pursues each foreign band — 
Where German is the name for friend, 
Where Frenchman is the name for fiend, 
And France's yoke is spurn'd and bann'd — 
That is the German's Fatherland ! 

That is the German's Fatherland ! 

Great Go-d ! look down and bless that land ! 

And give her noble children souls 

To cherish while Existence rolls, 

And love with heart, and aid with hand, 

Their Universal Fatherland ! 



August 0on gofzelrae. 



BE MERRY AND WISE. 

No beauty, no glory, remaineth 

Below the unbribable skies : 
All Beauty but winneth and waneth — 

All Glory but dazzles and dies. 

Since multitudes cast in a gay mould 
Before us have lived and have laugh'd, 

To the slurnberers under the clay-mould 
Let goblet on goblet be qnaff'd ! 

For millions in centuries after 

Decay shall have crumbled our bones, 

As lightly with revel and laughter 
Will fill their progenitors' thrones. 

Here banded together in union 
Our bosoms are joyous and gay. 

How blest, could our festive communion 
Remain to enchant us for aye ! 

But Change is omnipotent ever ; 

Thus knitted we cannot remain ; 
Wide waves and high hills will soon sever 

The links of our brotherly chain. 

Yet, even though far disunited, 
Our hearts are in fellowship still, 

And all, if but one be delighted, 
Will hear it with Sympathy's thrill 



And if, after years have gone o'er «s, 
Fate bring us together once more, 

Who knows but the mirth of our chorus 
May yet be as loud as before ' 






$arl <%ott (gbert. 



THE REVENGE OF DUKE SWERTING. 

[" Swerting, Duke of the Saxons, was conquered in 435 by 
Frottao IV., King of the Danes, who imposed upon the Saxoni 
a heavy yearly poll-tax. The Saxons in vain attempted to re- 
cover their independence ; and Frotho humbled them stUl 
more by making them pay a tax for every one of their limbs 
that was two feet long. To keep the Saxons better in sub- 
jection, Frotbo had thought it prudent to make his son Ingel 
marry the daughter of Swerting, in the hope of binding the 
latter to his interests by this alliance. But Swerting did not 
desert his own nation— he planned the destruction of the con- 
queror and oppressor of his country, and accomplished it 
nearly in the manner related in Ebert's ballad."— M. Klatjib- 
Klattowbki, German Ballads and Somanees, p. 303.] 

Oh, a warrior's feast was Swerting's in his 
Burg beside the Rhine ; 

There from gloomy iron bell-cups they drank 
the Saxon wine, 

And the viands were served in iron up, in- 
coldest iron all, 

And the sullen clash of iron arms resounded 
through the hall. 



Uneasily sat Frotho there, the Tyrant of the 

Danes ; 
With lowering brow he quaff 'd his cup, then 

eyed the iron chains 
That hung and clank'd like manacles at 

Swerting's arms and breast, 
And the iron studs and linked rings that 

boss'd his ducal vest 



" What may this bode, this chilling gloom, 

Sir Duke and Brother Knights ? 
Why meet I here such wintry cheer, such 

sorry sounds and sights ? 
Out on your shirts of iron ! Will ye bear to 

have it told 
That I found ye thus when Danish knightf 

go clad in silks and gold ? "— 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



* King ! Gold befits the freeman, the Iron 

marks the slave ; 
So thought and spake our fathers, and their 

sons are just and brave : 
Thyself hast bound the iron round thy proud 

but conquer' d foe ; 
If thy chains had been but golden we had 

burst them long ago. 

" But I came not here to hold a parle, or tell 

a tristful tale, 
But to bid the dastard tremble and to make 

the tyrant quail. 
Oh, strong, Sir King, is iron, but the heart 

is stronger still, 
Nor Earth nor Hell can cast in thrall a 

People's mighty Will ! " 

While his words yet rang like cymbals, there 

strode into the hall 
Twelve swarthy Saxon Rittersmen, with 

flaming torches tall ; 
They stood to catch a signal-glance from 

Swerting's eagle eye, 
Then again they rushed out, waving their 

pitchy brands on high. 

The Danish King grows paler, yet he brims 
his goblet higher ; 

But the sultry hall is dark with smoke; he 
hears the hiss of fire ! 

Yes ! the Red Avenger marches on his fierce 
and swift career, 

And from man to man goes round the whis- 
per, " Brother, it is near ! " 



Up starts the King ; he turns to fly ; Duke 

Swerting holds him fast. 
" Nay, Golden King, the dice are down, and 

thou must bide the cast. 
If thy chains can fetter this fell foe, the 

glory be thine own, 
Thiue be the Saxon Land for aye, and thine 

the Saxon throne ! " 

But hotter, hotter burns the air all through 

that lurid hall, 
And louder groan the blacken'd beams; the 

crackling rafters fall, 



And ampler waxes momently the glare, the 

volumed flash, 
Till at last the roof-tree topples down with 

stunning thunder-crash. 

Then in solemn prayer that gallant band of 

Self-devoted kneel — 
" Just God ! assoil our souls, thus driven to 

Freedom's last appeal ! " 
And Frotho writhes and rages, fire stifling 

his quick gasp, 
But, strong and terrible as Death, his foe 

maintains his grasp. 

" Behold, thou haughty tyrant, behold what 

Men can dare! 
So triumph such, — so perish, too, enslavers 

everywhere ! " 
And the billowy flames, while yet he speaks, 

come roaring down the hall, 
And the Fatherland is loosed for aye from 

Denmark's iron thrall ! 



fart Jmmermamt. 



THE STUDENT OP PRAGUE. 1 

What riotous din is ringing ? 

What wassailers throng the house? 
The student of Prague is singing 

The praise of his wild carouse. 
With bloodshot eyes and glowing, 

He shouts like one possess'd, 
His goblet overflowing, 

His head- on his leman's breast. 



1 This ballad is founded on fact. In a note at she end 
of M. Klauer's volume we have, the genuine history of the 
hero, given in a narrative transcribed from Feszler and 
Fischer's Eunomia, for July, 1805. The student was the son 
of a Pomeranian country clergyman, and was sent to Prague 
for the completion of his education. There his yonth, tem- 
perament, and freedom from restraint, soon led mm into ex- 
cesses, which increased until he became a confirmed libertine. 
He ceased to correspond with his kindred ; and his father, 
preyed on by anxiety and grief, at length fell mortally ill. His 
mother now wrote to him, adjuring him to return anrl receive 
the dyingbenediction of the parent who had reared him in the 
love and fear of God ; but in vain. The student, considering 
her story an invention to wile him home, refused to attach 
credit to it, an^ pursued his career of dissipation at Prague. 
Time wheeleu on ; at last, one night, as the student Jay .t bed. 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



As pallid as alabaster, 

The servant ventures in : 
K Tis midnight, O my master ! 

Cease now, at least, from sin !" — 
'« Avaunt, thou croaking booby ! 

I brook no babble from thee ; 
As long as the wine looks ruby 

Right jovial I swear to be !" 

He drinks from his goblet faster; 

Within lies a coiled worm : 
" God gives thee a sign, my master ! 

It saith, Repent ! Reform !" 
" Truce, dolt, to thy coffin-faces ! 

Go, preach to the fools that will hear: 
Thus lock'd in my leman's embraces, 

What accident have I to fear ?" 



He plays with her night-black tresses ; 

She breaks from his arms by force ; 
Her hand on her heart she presses; 

She shrieks, and drops down a corse ! 
Then steps the servant past her, 

And falls upon his knee : 
" God shows thee a sign, O master, 

A fearful sign to thee !" — 



he was startled by a rustling sound nigh him, and in the i 
moment a gentle current of air passed over his face. Turning 
round with an involuntary shudder, he beheld a phantom 
leaning over the bedside, and contemplating him with looks 
of the tenderest pity. It was the apparition of his dying 
father I Terror mastered him at the sigit ; he seized a sword 
that hung against the wall, and made a thrust at the spectre, 
which immediately disappeared. The student was now 
seriously alarmed, as all his dependence was upon his father, 
and next day he set ont for Pomerania. But before he had 
accomplished more than half his journey homeward, a black 
letter met him. and, opening it, he found that it announced 
the death of his father. After a number of preliminary de- 
tails, the following account was given of the last moments of 
the deceased : •' The desire of the sick man to see his child 
once more, the father's anguish at the thought of his son's 
deprarity and obduracy, augmented hourly. On the last even- 
ing of his life, never a minute elapsed that he did not inquire, 
on the occasion of the slightest noise or movement near him, 
•Has he come yet? Is he there?' And when answered, 
4 Alas, no !' he would break forth into piteous lamentations 
over the wretched state of his lost son. Midnight came, 
passed; he grew fainter and fainter. At one o'clock he had 
sunk into a state of strange calmneBs. It was thought that 
he slept. HiB family surrounded his bed. On a sudden a 
trembling came over him ; he turned himself round, and lift- 
ing his eyes to his daughter, who was affectionately watching 
by him, he exclaimed, in a hollow voice, 4 A11 is overl My 
reprobate son has just struck at me with his sword 1' Speech 
and consciousness then deserted him. Toward the dawning 
of day he gave up the ghost." M. Klauer's narrative, of 
which this is an abstract, closes here: the ballad, it will be 
jxrr.ived, carries the story further, but whether according to 
the strict truth or not, we cannot pretend to say. 



" Away, thou hound, to the devil ! 

Red gold have I still in store 
To win me wherewith to revel, 

And fairer lemans a score. 
So long as my dotard father 

Takes care of this purse of mine,. 
So long, by hell, will I gather 

The roses of Love and wine." 

The servant, shuddering, fetches 

Away the accusing Dead ; 
And the wild young Student stretchef 

His wasted limbs in bed. 
The lurid lamp is shooting 

A bluer glare anon ; 
The owls without are hooting ; 

The hollow bell tolls " One !" 

When lo ! a charnel vapor 

Pervades the Student's room ; 
Then dies the darkening taper ; 

And, shimmering through the gloom, 
A shadow with look of sorrow 

Bends over the reckless boy, 
Who dreams of new pleasures to-morrow, 

And laughs his libertine joy. 

The Pitying Phantom raises 

Its warning hand on high ; 
The Student starts ; he gazes ; 

He grasps his bed-sword nigh; 
He strikes at what resembles 

His father's features pale ! 
And the stricken Phantom trembles, 

And vanishes with a wail. 

The wintry morn is dawning 

In ashy-gray and red ; 
The servant undraws the awning 

That screens his master's bed ; 
And a black-edged letter, weeping, 

He gives the startled youth ;' 
And the Student's flesh is creeping, 

For he fears the dreadful truth. 

" From thy mother, broken-hearted, 
And widow'd now by thee — 

Thy father has departed 
This life in agony. 

1 The rapid conveyance of this letter is of course a poetical 






POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



37o 



Whole nights I saw him languish ; 

And still he call'd in wild 
And ceaseless tones of anguish 

For thee, his ruin'd child. 

"At last he lay as tranced ; 

His struggles appear'd to cease, 
And I fondly hoped and fancied 

His spirit was now at peace ; 
But soon I heard him crying, 

'He strikes me with his sword!' 
And his bitter curse in dying 

On his harden'd son was pour'd." 

The parricide Student ponders, 

But word he utters not ; 
He leaves the house and wanders 

To a lone and desolate spot. 
With scissors he there divests his 

Proud head of its clustering hair, 
And low on his hands he rests his 

Shorn skull and temples bare. 1 

And now what chant funereal, 

What feasters fill the house ? 
Their chant is a dirge of burial, 

Their feast a death-carouse. 
They drain the funeral-bowl off, 

And chorus in accents vague 
A hymn to the rest of the soul of 

Tb.6 penitent Student of Prague. 



Jwdhmud (Sottfrtd flax ^. ^hcn- 
Iipdorf. 



ANDREAS HOFER. 
"Victory! Victory! Inspruck's t 

By the Vintner of Passayer ! " ' 
What wild joy the sounds awaken ? 

Hearts grow bolder, faces gayer ; 

1 Und nimmt in beide Hande 
Den kaldgeschornen Kopf, 
" Mid takes the bald-shom head in both hands." 
sage appears to us inconsequent. 

* Hofer kept an inn at Passeier, his birth-place 
after he had taken up arms, he always went amon 
»ntry bv the title of der Saniwirth, the Publican. 



Maidens, leaving duller labors, 

Weave the wreaths they mean' to proffer ; 
All the students, all the neighbors, 

March with music out to Hofer. 

Till the Chief, commanding silence, 

Speaks, with tone and aspect sternest- - 
" Men ! lay down your trumpery vi'lins ! 

Death and God are both in earnest ! 
Not for Music, not for Glory, 

Leave I wives and orphans weeping ; 
Perish Hofer's name in story ! 

He but seeks one goal unsleeping. 

"Kneel in prayer, and chant your ros'ries , 

Theirs is music meet to cheer ye. 
When your hearts in speech that glows rise. 

God the Lord may deign to hear ye. 
Pray for me a sinner, lowly, 

Pray for our gre at Kaiser loudly ; * 
God keep Prince and People holy ! 

May both guard the sceptre proudly ! 

Me, my time is short for suing ; 

Shew God what and how the case is ; 
Count Him tip what Dead are strewing 

Level plains and lofty places ; 
State what hosts yet shield the Wronger,* 

And what clans of Austrian bowmen 
Speed the shout and shaft no longer : — 

God alone can crush our foemen." 



Julius Jtan. 



THE DEATH OF HOFER. 
At Mantua long had lain in chains 
The gallant Hofer bound ; 

But now his day of doom was come— 
At morn the deep roll of the drum 



» Betet leise fur mich Armen, 
Betet laut fur unsern Kaiser. 
Viz:— Pray softly for me [a] poor [sinner] 
Pray aloud for our Emperor. 
I quote these lines because, upon casting my eye over tl 
translation, " a sinner lowly " strikes me as somewhat of s 
ambiguity. 
* Bonaparte. 






376 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



Resounded o'er the soldier'd plains. 

O Heaven ! with what a deed of dole 
The hundred thousand wrongs were 
crown'd 
Of trodden-down Tyrol ! ' 



With iron-fetter'd arms and hands 
The hero moved along. 

His heart was calm, his eye was clear, 
Death was for traitor slaves to fear ! 
He oft amid his mountain bands, 

Where Inn's dark wintry waters roll, 
Had faced it with his battle-song, 
The Sandwirth of Tyrol. 



Anon he pass'd the fortress-wall, 
And heard the wail that broke 

From many a brother thrall within. 
" Farewell ! " he cried. " Soon may 
you win 
Your liberty ! God shield you all ! 

Lament not me ! I see my goal. 
Lament the land that wears the yoke, 
Your land and mine, Tyrol ! " 



So through the files of musqueteers 
Undauntedly he pass'd, 

And stood within the hollow square. 
Well might he glance around him 
there, 
And proudly think on by-gone years ! 
Amid such serfs his bannerol, 
Thank God ! had never braved the blast 
On thy green hills, Tyrol ! 



They bade him kneel ; but he with all 
A patriot's truth replied — 

" I kneel alone to God on high — 
As thus I stand so dare I die, 
As oft 1 fought so let me fall ! 

Farewell" — his breast a moment swoll 
With agony he strove to hide — 
" My Kaiser and Tyrol ! " 



No more emotion he betray'd. 
Again he bade farewell 

To Francis and the faithful men 
Who girt his throne. His hands were 
then 
Unbound for prayer, and thus he pray'd : — 
" God of the Free, receive my soul ! 
And you, slaves, Fire ! " So bravely fell 
Thy foremost man, Tyrol ! 



August iuhu. 



THE BEREAVED ONE. 

There comes a Wanderer, worn and weary, 

To a cottage on the wold — 
" Mother dear ! — the night is dreary, 

And I am wet and cold, 
For 1 have been through rain and mire ; 

Mother dear, it blows a storm ! 

Let me in, I pray, to warm 
My fingers by the fire ! " 



The door is open'd — not by her — 

A little boy, well-nigh a child, 
Looks up into the Wanderer's face 

With a look so soft and mild ! — 
He was like a messenger 

Sent from some pure sphere above, 
Unto Man's unhappy race, 

On an embassy of love ! 



" Come in, good man," he said ; " what dost 
Thou out on such a night as this ? 

Oh, I was dreaming wondrous things ! 
Me dreamt that I had left and lost 

My happy home and all my bliss ; ( 
So I wept and could not rest, — 
Then came one with golden wings, 
And took me to my father's breast." 

The Wanderer's tears are flowing fast ; 

He doth not speak, he clasps his hands, 
| But grief breaks forth in speech at last — 






POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



" And, dearest child,where is thy father?" 




"Amid a shadowy group he stands, 


d^nrau' Uteteel. 


And a moony light reposes 




On his face, but I would rather 




Be with him than pulling roses ! " 


SONG. 


" And thy mother, — what of her ? " 


When the roses blow 


" Oh ! often when the night is falling, 


Man looks out for brighter hours ; 


When the wind moans through the fir, 


When the roses glow 


I can hear her dear voice calling 


Hope relights her lampless bowers. 


From her far-off home to me : 


Much that seem'd in Winter's gloom 


1 think this cottage was too small 


Dark with heavy woe, 


For father, sister, her and all, 


Wears a gladsome hue and bloom 


And so they left it, all the three." 


When the roses blow — 




When the roses blow — 


" Ha ! what ! — thy sister also ? — Speak ! " — 


Wears a gladsome hue and bloom 


" Good man, I see thou knewest her, then. 


When the roses blow. 


The bloom soon faded from her cheek, 




But now she dwells beyond the moon; 




She could not stay, she told me, when 


When the roses blow, 


Our mother and our father went ; 


Love, that slept, shall wake anew : 


Dovni in the vale, to-morrow noon, 


Merrier blood shall flow 


They'll point thee out her monument." 


Through the springald's veins of blue; 




And if Sorrow wrung the heart, 


" And, tell me, darling child ! who sleeps 


Even that shall go ; — 


Within „he grave beside the stream, 


Pain and Mourning must depart 


Where tlie sun can seldom beam, 


When the roses blow — 


And the willow ever weeps ? 


When the roses blow — 


The burial-stone rose blank and bare." 


Pain and Mourning must depart 


Here wept the child, and then he said, 


When the roses blow. 


" They say my brother's wife is dead, 




Because she slumbers there. 






When the roses blow 


" My brother Walter went abroad, 


Look to heaven, my fainting soul ! 


And never more came back, 


There, in stainless show, 


And then his wife grew pale and wan, 


Spreads the veil that hides thy goaL 


She said her heart was on the rack, 


Not while Winter breathes his blight 


And Life was now a weary load ; 


Burst thy bonds below ! 


And so she linger'd, linger'd on, 


Let the Earth look proud and bright, 


Until a year or two ago, 


Let the roses blow ! 


When Death released her from her woe." 


Let the roses blow ! 




Oh, let Earth look proud and bright ! 


Thus far will Walter hear — no more : 


Let the roses blow ! 


He presses once his brother's hand, 




Then, wandering forth amid the roar 




Of wind and rain he seeks the river, 


GOOD-NIGHT. 


And, having one brief minute scann'd, 


Good-night, Good-night, my Lyre! 


Silently, and calm of eye, 


A long, a last Good-night ! 


The broad black mass of cloud on high, 


In ashes lies the fire 


lie plunges in the waves forever ! 


That lent me Warmth and Light 






POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



With Love, Life too is fled ; 

My bosom's blood is cold ; 
My mind is all but dead ; 

My heart is growing old. 

Soon will my sad eyes close, 
O Lyre, on Earth and Thee ! 

I go to woo Repose 
In God's Eternity. 



farmt urnt Mite. 



THE MIDNIGHT REVIEW. 

When midnight hour is come, 
The drummer forsakes his tomb, 

And marches, beating his phantom-drum 
To and fro through the ghastly gloom. 

He plies the drumsticks twain 

With fleshless fingers pale, 
And beats, and beats again and again, 

A long and dreary reveil ! 

Like the voice of abysmal waves 

Resounds its unearthly tone, 
Till the dead old soldiers, long in their 
graves, 

Awaken through every zone. 

And the slain in the land of the Hun, 
And the frozen in the icy North, 

And those who under the burning sun 
Of Italy sleep, come forth. 

And they whose bones long while 
Lie bleaching in Syrian sands, 

And the slumberers under the reeds of the 
Nile, 
Arise, with arms in their hands. 



And at midnight, in his shroud, 
The trumpeter leaves his tomb, 

And blows a blast long, deep, and loud, 
As he rides through the ghastly gloom. 



And the yellow moonlight shines 
On the old Imperial Dragoons; 

And the Cuirassiers they form in lines 
And the Carabineers in platoons. 

At a signal the ranks unsheathe 
Their weapons in rear and van; 

But they scarcely appear to speak 
breathe, 
And their features are sad and wan. 



And when midnight robes the sky, 
The Emperor leaves his tomb, 

And rides along, surrounded by 

His shadowy staff, through the gloom. 

A silver star so bright 

Is glittering on his breast ; 
In a uniform of blue and white 

And a gray camp-frock he is dress'd. 

The moonbeams shine afar 

On the various marshall'd groups, 

As the Man with the glittering silver star 
Proceeds to review his troops. 

And the dead battalions all 

Go again through their exercise, 

Till the moon withdraws, and a gloomier 
pall 
Of blackness wraps the skies. 

Then around their chief once more 
The Generals and Marshals throng ; 

And he whispers a word oft heard before 
In the ear of his aide-de-camp. 

In files the troops advance, 

And then are no longer seen. 
The challenging watchword given is 
" France !" 

The answer is " St. Helene !" 



And this is the Grand Review, 
Which at midnight on the wolds, 

If popular tales may pass for true, 
The buried Emperor holds. 



IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 



BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



DARK ROSALEEN. 
(TRANSLATED fkom the ibish.) 



[This impassioned song, entitled, in the original, Rcl&n 
Dub., or The Black Little Kose, was written in the reign of 
Elizabeth by one of the poets of the celebrated Tirconnellian 
ohieftain, Hugh the Red O'Donnell. It purports to be an alle- 
gorical address from Hugh to Ireland on the subject of his love 
and straggles for her, and his resolve to raise her again to the 
glorious position she held as a nation before the irruption of 
the Saxon and Norman spoilers. The true character and 
meaning of the figurative allusions with which it abounds, 
and to two only of which I need refer here— viz., the " Roman 
wine " and " Spanish ale " mentioned in the first stanza— the 
intelligent reader will, of course, find no difliculty in under- 






Oh, my Dark Rosaleen, 

Do not sigh, do not weep ! 
The priests are on the ocean green, 

They march along the Deep. 
There's wine .... from the royal Pope, 

Upon the ocean green ; 
And Spanish ale shall give you hope, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 
Shall glad your heart, shall give you 

hope, 
Shall give you health, and help, and 
hope, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 



Over hills, and through dales, 

Have I roam'd for your sake ; 
All yesterday I sail'd with sails 

On river and on lake. 
The Erne, at its highest flood, 

I dash'd across unseen, 
For there was lightning in my blood, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen 1 



Oh ! there was lightning in my blood, 
Red lightning lighten'd through mj 
blood, 
My Dark Rosaleen ! 

All day long, in unrest, 

To and fro do I move. 
The very soul within my breast 

Is wasted for you, love ! 
The heart in my bosom faints 

To think of you, my Queen, 
My life of life, my saint of saints, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 
To hear your sweet and sad complaints 
My life, my love, my saint of saints, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 



Woe and pain, pain and woe, 

Are my lot, night and noon, 
To see your bright face clouded so, 

Like to the mournful moon. 
But yet. . . .will 1 rear your throne 

Again in golden sheen ; 
'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 
'Tis you shall have the golden throne, 
'Tis you shall reign, and reign alone, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 



Over dews, over sands, 

Will I fly, for your weal : 
Your holy delicate white hands 

Shall girdle me with steel. 
At home. . . .in your emerald bowers, 

From morning's dawn till e'en, 
You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My fond Rosaleen ! 






POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



You'll think of me through Daylight's 

hours, 
My virgin flower, my flower of flowers, 
My Dark Rosaleen ! 

I could scale the blue air, 

I could plough the high hills, 
Oh, I could kneel all night in prayer, 

To heal your many ills ! 
And one. . . .beamy smile from you 

Would float like light between 
My toils and me, my own, my true, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My fond Rosaleen ! 
Would give me life and soul anew, 
A second life, a soul anew, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

Oh ! the Erne shall run red 

With redundance of blood, 
The earth shall rock beneath our tread, 

And flames wrap hill and wood, 
And gun-peal, and slogan cry, 

Wake many a glen serene, 
Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 
The Judgment Hour must first be nigh, 
Ere you can fade, ere you can die, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 



SHANE BWEE; OR, THE CAPTIVITY OP 
THE GAELS. 

A Translation of the Jacobite Song, called " Geibionn na-n- 
Gaoideil," written by Owen Roe 0'Sdtj.itan, a Kerry 
poet, who flourished about the middle of the last century. 



" Ag taisdiol na slfiibte dam sealad am aonar." 

'Twas by sunset I walk'd and wander'd 

Over hill-sides. . . .and over moors, 
With a many sighs and tears. 

Sunk in sadness, I darkly ponder'd 

All the wrongs our lost land endures 

In these latter night-black years. 
"How," I mused, " has her worth departed ! 
What a ruin . . . .her fame is now ! 
We, once freest of the Free, 



We are trampled and broken-hearted ; 

Yea, even our Princes themselves must 

bow 
Low before the vile Shane Bwee 1'" 



Nigh a stream, in a grassy hollow, 

Tired, at length, I. . . .lay down to rest — 
There the birds and balmy air 
Bade new reveries .... and cheerier follow, 
Waking newly .... within my breast 
Thoughts that cheated my despair. 
Was I waking .... or was I dreaming ? 
I glanced up, and . . . .behold ! there shone 
Such a vision over me ! 

A young girl, bright as Erin's beaming 

Guardian spirit — now sad and lone, 
Through the Spoiling of Shane Bweel 



Oh for pencil to paint the golden 

Locks that waved in . . . .luxuriant sheen 
To her feet of stilly light ! 
(Not the Fleece that ... .in ages olden 

Jason bore o'er the ocean green 

Into Hellas, gleam'd so bright.) 
And the eyebrows. . . .thin-arch'd over 
Her mild eyes, and . . . .more, even more 
Beautiful, methought, to see 

Than those rainbows that wont to hover 

O'er our blue island-lakes of yore 
Ere the Spoiling by Shane Bwee ! 



" Bard !" she spake, " deem . . . not this unreal. 
I was niece of . ... a Pair whose peers 
None shall see on earth agen — 
iEoNGUS Con, and . . . .the Dark O'Niat.t.,* 
Rulers over .... Iern in years 
When her sons as yet were Men. 

Times have darken'd ; and now our holy 

Altars crumble, and castles fall ; 

Our groans ring through Christendee. 
Still, despond not ! HE comes, though slowly, 
He, the Man, who shall disenthral 

The PROUD CAPTIVE of Shane 
Bwee !" 



1 Seagan Buid/ie, Yellow John, a came applied first to tl 
P-tnce of Orange, and afterward to his adherents generally. 
» Niall Dubh. 






POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MAN G AN. 



Here she vanish'd ; and I, in sorrow, 

Blent with joy, rose and went my way 

Homeward over moor and hill. 

O Great God! Thou from whom we 

borrow 
Life and strength, unto Thee I pray ! 
Thou, who sway est at Thy will 
Hearts and councils, thralls, tyrants, free- 
men, 
Wake through Europe. . . .the ancient soul, 
And on every shore and sea, 
From the Blackwater to the Dniemen, 

Freedom's Bell will ere long time toll 

The deep death-knell of Shane Bwee ! 



A LAMENTATION 



THE DEATH OF SIR MAURICE FITZGERALD, 

KNIGHT OF KERRY. 1 

r £a Abridged Translation from the Men of Fierce Fernter.] 

There was lifted up one voice of woe, 

One lament of more than mortal grief, 
Through the wide South to and fro, 

For a fallen Chief. 
In the dead of night that cry thrill'd through 
me, 

I look'd out upon the midnight air ; 
Mine own soul was all as gloomy, 

And I knelt in prayer. 

O'er Loch Gur, that night, once — twice— 
yea, thrice — 

Pass'd a wail of anguish for the Brave 
That half curdled into ice 

Its moon-mirroring wave. 
Then uprose a many-toned wild hymn in 

Choral swell from Ogra's dark ravine, 
And Mogeely's Phantom Women' 

Mourn'd the Geraldine! 

Far on Carah Mona's emera.d plains 
Shrieks and sighs were blended many 
hours, 

And Fennoy in fitful strains 
Answer'<» ''-om her towers. 



i Who was killed in Flanders in 1643. 



Youghal, Keenalmeaky, Eemokilly, 

Mourn'd in conceit, and their piercing keen 

Woke to wondering life the stilly 
Glens of Inchiqueen. 

From Loughmoe to yellow Dunanore 

There was fear ; the traders of Tralee 
Gather'd up their golden store, 

And prepared to flee ; 
For, in ship and hall, from night till morning 

Show'd the first faint beamings of the sun, 
All the foreigners heard the warning 

Of the dreaded One ! 

" This," they spake, " portendeth death to iw, 

If we fly not swiftly from our fate !" 
Self-conceited idiots ! thus 

Ravingly to prate ! 
Not for base-born higgling Saxon trucksters- 

Ring laments like those by shore and sea; 
Not for churls with souls of hucksters 

Waileth our Banshee ! 

For the high Milesian race alone 

Ever flows the music of her woe ; 
For slain heir to bygone throne, 

And for Chief laid low ! 
Hark ! . . . .Again, methinks, I hear her weep- 
ing 

Yonder ! Is she near me now, as then ? 
Or was but the night-wind sweeping 

Down the hollow glen ? 



(from the trish.) 



"A Fhadrnlg Saireeal 1 elan go dtt tn I 

Part I. 
The bard apostrophizes Sarsfield. 
Farewell, O Patrick Sarsfield ! May luck 
be on your path 1 
Your camp is broken up — your work is 
marred for years — 
But you go to kindle into flame the King of 
France's wrath, 
Though you leave sick Erin in tears. 
Ohone ! Ullasjone ! ' 



' This word is a corruption of the phrase Olc-gtieoin, literal- 
ly an evil noise, viz., a cry raised on the perpetration of soma 
bad action. 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



And invokes blessings on him. 

May the white sun and moon rain glory 

on your head, 
All hero a« you are, and holy Man of God ! 

To you the Saxons owe a many an hour 

of dread 
In the land you have often trod. 
Ohone ! Ullagone ! 

And yet more blessings. 
The Son of Mary guard you, and bless you 
to the end ! 
'Tis alter'd is the time since your legions 
were astir, 
When at Cullen you were hail'd as the Con- 
queror and Friend, 
And you eross'd the river near Birr. 
Ohone ! Ullagone ! 

Me announces his design of revisiting the 
North. 
I'll journey to the North, over mount, moor, 
and wave. 
'Twas there I first beheld, drawn up in file 
and line, 
The brilliant Irish hosts — they were bravest 
of the Brave, 
But, alas ! they scorn'd to combine ! 
Ohone ! Ullagone I 

He recounts his reminiscences of the war. 
I saw the royal Boyne, when its billows 
flash'd with blood. 
1 fought at Grana Oge, where a thousand 
marcachs* fell. 
On the dark empurpled field of Aughrim, 
too, I stood, 
On the plain by Shanbally's "Well. 
Ohone ! Ullagone ! 

He gives his benison to Limerick. 
To the heroes of Limerick, the City of the 
Fights, 
Be my best blessing borne on the wings 
of the air ! 



We had card-playing there o'er our camp- 
fires at night, 
And the Word of Life, too, and prayer.* 

And bestows his malison on Londonderry. 
But, for you, Londonderry, may Plague 
smite and slay 

Your people ! May Ruin desolate you 

stone by stone ! 
Through you a many a gallant youth lies 
cofl&nless to-day, 
With the winds for mourners alone ! 
Ohone ! Ullagone ! 

He indulges in a burst of sorrow for a lost 

opportunity. 
I clomb the high hill on a fair summer noon, 
And saw the Saxon Muster, clad in armor 
blinding bright, 
Oh, Rage withheld my hand, or gunsman 
and dragoon 

have supp'd with Satan that night ! 
Ohone ! Ullasrone ! 



The bard mourns for the valiant Dead. 
How many a noble soldier, how many a cav- 
alier, 
Career'd along this road. . . .seven fleeting 
weeks ago, 
With silver-hilted sword, with matchlock 
and with spear, 
Who now, movrone, lieth low! 
Ohone I Ullagone ! 

And pays a tribute to the valor of one of 
the Living. 
All hail to thee, Ben Hedir — But ah, on thy 
brow 
I see a limping soldier, who battled and 
who bled 
Last year in the cause of the Stuart, though 
now 
The worthy is begging his bread ! 
Ohone ! Ullagone 1 



i of tie middle ages, 






POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAK 



He deplores the loss of a friend. 

And Jerome, oh Jerome ! ' he perish'd in the 

strife — 

His head it was spiked on a halbert so high ; 

His colors they were trampled. He had no 

chance of life, 

If the Lord God himself stood by* 

And of others, dear friends also. 
But most, oh, my woe ! I lament and lament 
For the ten valiant heroes who dwelt nigh 
the Nore, 
And my three blessed brothers ! They left 
me, and they went 
To the wars — and return'd no more ! 
Ohone ! Ullagone ! 

He reverts to the calamities of the Irish. 
On the Bridge of the Boyne was our first 
overthrow — 
By Slaney the next, for we battled with- 
out rest : 
The third was at Aughrim. Oh, Erin, thy 
woe 
Is a sword in my bleeding breast ! 
Ohone ! Ullagone ! 



vivid terms the conflagration 
of the house at Ballytemple. 
Oh ! the roof above our heads it was barba- 
rously fired, 
While the black Orange guns. . . .blazed 
and bellow'd around, — 
And as volley follow'd volley, Colonel 
Mitchell inquired 
Whether Lucan' still stood his ground. 
Ohone ! Ullagone ! 

Finally, however, he takes a more hopeful 
view of the prospects of his country. 

But O'Kelly still remains, to defy and to 
toil; 



1 One of King James's generals. 

' " Agut ni riabkfagkaU cleasda aige da bhfc&cleach ee Ma 
nan."— This is one of those peculiarly powerful forms of ex- 
pression, to which I find no parallel except in the Arabic lan- 
guage. 

* lord Lucan, i. e. General Saratteld. 



He has memories that Hell won't permit 
him to forget, 
And a sword that will make the blue blood 
flow like oil 
Upon many an Aughrim yet ! 
Ohone ! Ullagone ! 

And concludes most clieeringiy. 
And I never shall believe that my Father- 
land can fall 
With the Burkes and the Decies, and the 
son of Royal James, 
And Talbot the Captain, and Saksfieud 
above all, 
The beloved of damsels and dames. 4 



LAMENT 

KUINS OP THE ABBET OP TEACH MOLAOA.* 



"Oidhche dhamh. go doilg, diibhach." 

I waisdee'd forth at night alone, 
Along the dreary, shingly, billow-beaten 

shore ; 
Sadness that night was in my bosom's core 

My soul and strength lay prone. 



The thin wan moon, half overveil'd 
By clouds, shed her funereal beams upon the 

scene ; 
While in low tones, with many a pause be- 
tween, 
The mournful night-wind wail'd. 

Musing of Life, and Death, and Fate, 
I slowly paced along, heedless of aught 

around, 
Till on the hill, now, alas ! ruin-crown'd, 

Lo ! the old Abbey-gate ! 



* " Ague Padraig Sairseal, gradh ban Mrionn I "—For a 
vivid account of these battles of the Williamite wars, see Ha- 
verty's History of Ireland, Fan-ell's Illustrated Edition, pp. 



184 



•OEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



Dim in the pallid moonlight stood, 
Crumbling to slow decay, the remnant of 

tkat pile 
Within whieh dwelt so many saints ercwhile 

In loving brotherhood ! 



The memory of the men who slept 
Under those desolate walls — the solitude — 

the hour — 
Mine own lorn mood of mind — all join'd to 
o'erpower 
My spirit — and I wept ! 



In yonder Goshen once — I thought — 
Reign'd Piety and Peace : Virtue and Truth 

were there ; 
With Charity and the blessed spirit of Prayer 

Was each fleet moment fraught ! 



There, unity of Walk and Will 
Blent hundreds into one : no jealousies or 

jars 
Troubled their placid lives ; their fortunate 
stars 
Had triumph'd o'er all 111 ! 



There, knoll'd each morn and even 
The bell for Matin and Vesper : Mass was 

said or sung. — 
From the bright silver censer as it swung, 

Rose balsamy clouds to heaven. 



Through the round-cloister'd cor- 
ridors 
A many a midnight hour, bareheaded and 

unshod, 
Walk'd the Gray Friars, beseeching from 
their God 
Peace for these western shores ! 



The weary pilgrim, bow'd by Age, 
Oft found asylum there — found welcome, and 

found wine. 
Oft rested in its halls the Paladine, 

The Poet and the Sage ! 



Alas ! alas ! how dark the change ', 
Now round its mouldering walls, over its 

pillars low, 

The grass grows rank, the yellow gowans 
blow, 
Looking so sad and strange ! 



Unsightly stones choke up its wells ; 
The owl hoots all night long under the altar- 
stairs ; 
The fox and badger make their darksome 
lairs 
In its deserted cells ! 



Tempest and Time — the drifting 
sands— 
The lightnings and the rains — the seas that 

sweep around 
These hills in winter-nights, have awfully 
crown'd 
The work of impious hands ! 



The sheltering, smooth-stoned, mas- 
sive wall — 
The noble figured roof— -the glossy marbl« 

piers — 
The monumental shapes of elder years — 
Where are they ? Vanish'd all ! 

Rite, incense, chant, prayer, mass, 
have ceased— 
All, all have ceased ! Only the whitening 

bones half sunk 
In the earth now tell that ever here dwelt 
monk, 
Friar, acolyte, or priest. 



Oh ! woe, that Wrong should triumph 
thus! 
Woe that the olden right, the rule and the 

renown 
Of the Pure-soul'd and Meek should thus 
go down 
Before the Tyrannous • 

Where wert thou, Justice, in that 
hour? 






POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MAN CAN. 



365 



Where was thy smiting sword ? What had 

those good men done, 
That thou shouldst tamely see them trampled 
on 
By brutal England's Power ? 

Alas, I rave ! If Change is here, 

Is it not o'er the land ? Is it not too in me ? 
Yes ! I am changed even more than what I 

Now is my last goal near! 

My worn limbs fail — my blood moves 
cold — 
Dimness is on mine eyes — I have seen my 

children die ; 
They lie where I too in brief space shall lie — 
Under the grassy mould ! 
****** 
I turn'd away, as toward my grave, 
And, all my dark way homeward by the At- 
lantic's verge, 
Resounded in mine ears like to a dirge 
The roaring; of the wave. 



THE DAWNING OF THE DAY. 

[ The following song, translated from the Irish of O' Doran, 
refers to a singular atmospherical phenomenon said to be 
sometimes observed atBlackrock, near Duudalk, at daybreak, 
by the fishermen of that locality. Many similar narratives are 
>e met with in the poetry of almost all countries ; but 
O'Doran has endeavored to give the legend a political coloring, 
of which. I apprehend, readers in general will hardiy deem it 
susceptible.] 

" Maidin chiuin dham chois bruach na tragha." 



'Twas a balmy summer morning, 
Warm and early, 

Such as only June bestows ; 
Everywhere the earth adorning, 
Dews lay pearly 

In the lily-bell and rose. 
Up from each green-leafy bosk and hollow 

Rose the blackbird's pleasant lay, 
And the soft cuckoo was sure to follow. 

'Twas the Dawning of the Day ! 

Through the perfumed air the golden 
Bees flew round me ; 
Bright tish dazzled from the sea, 
Till medreamt some fairy olden- 



World spell bound me 
In a trance of witcherie 
Steeds pranced round anon witn stateliest 
housings 
Bearing riders prankt in rich array, 
Like flush'd revellers'after wine-carousings. 
'Twas the Dawning of the Day! 

Then a strain of song was chanted, 
And the lightly- 
Floatirig sea-nymphs drew anear. 
Then again the shore seem'd haunted 
By hosts brightly 
Clad, and wielding shield and spear! 
Then came battle shouts — an onward 
rushing — 
Swords, and chariots, and a phantom 
fray. 
Then all vanish'd ; the warm skies were, 
blushing 
In the Dawning of the Day ! 

Cities girt with glorious gardens, 
Whose immortal 
Habitants in robes of light 
Stood, methought, as angel-wardena 
Nigh each portal, 
Now arose to daze my sight. 
Eden spread around, revived and bloom- 
ing; 
When . . . lo ! as I gazed, all pass'd away 
... I saw but black rocks and billows loom- 
ing 
In the dim chill Dawn of Day ! 



THE DREAM OF JOHN MacDONNELL. 
(translated FROM THE rRISH.) 

[John MacDonnell, usually called MacDonnell Claragh, from 
his family residence, was a native of the county of Cork, and 
may be classed among the first of the purely Irish poets of the 
last century. Fie was born in 1691, and died in 1154. Hia 
poems are remarkable for their energy, their piety of tone, 
and the patriotic spirit they everywhere mauifest. The follow- 
ing is one of them, and deserves to be regarded as a very curi- 
ous topographical " Jacobite relic."] 

I lay in unrest — old thoughts of pain, 
That I struggled in vain to smother, 

Like midnight spectres haunted my brain; 
Dark fantasies chased each other; 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



When, lo ! a Figure — who might it be ? — 
A tall fair figure stood near me ! 

Who might it be ? An unreal Banshee ? 
Or an angel sent to cheer me ? 

Though years have roll'd since then, yet 
now 

My memory thrillingly lingers 
On her awful charms, her waxen brow, 

Her pale translucent fingers, 
Her eyes that mirror'd a wonder-world, 

Her mien of unearthly mildness, 
And her waving raven tresses that curl'd 

To the ground in beautiful 



" Whence comest thou, Spirit ? " I ask'd, 
methougnt, 

"Thou art not one of the Banish'd?" 
Alas, for me ! she answer'd nought, 

But rose aloft and evanish'd ; 
And a radiance, like to a glory, beam'd 

In the light she left behind her. 
Long time I wept, and at last medream'd 

I left my shieling to find her. 



And first I turn'd to the thunderous 
North, 

To Gruagach's mansion kingly ; 
Untouching the earth, I then sped forth 

To Inver-lough, and the shingly 
And shining strand of the fishful Erne, 

And thence to Cruachan the golden, 
Of whose resplendent palace ye learn 

So many a marvel olden ! 



I saw the Mourna's billows flow — 
I pass'd the walls of Shenady, 

And stood in the hero-throng'd Ardroe, 
Embosk'd amid greenwoods shady ; 

And visited that proud pile that stands 
Above the Boyne's broad waters, 

Where iEngus dwells with his warrior- 
bands 

And the fairest of Ulster's daughters. 



To the halls of MacLir, to Creevroe's 
height, 
To Tara, the glory of Erin, 



To the fairy palace that glances bright 
On the peak of the blue Cnocfeerin, 

I vainly hied. I went west and east — 
I travell'd seaward and shoreward — 

But thus was I greeted at. field and at 
feast — 
" Thy way lies onward and forward !" 



At last I reach'd. I wist not how, 

The royal towers of Ival, 
Which under the cliff's gigantic brow, 

Still rise without a rival ; 
And here were Thomond's chieftains all, 

With armor, and swords, and lances, 
And here sweet music fill'd the hall, 

And damsels charm'd with dances. 



And here, at length, on a silvery throne, 

Half seated, half reclining, 
With forehead white as the marble stone, 

And garments so starrily shining, 
And features beyond the poet's pen — 

The sweetest, saddest features — 
Appear'd before me once agen, 

That fairest of Living- Creatures! 



" Draw near, O mortal !" she said with a 
sigh, 

" And hear my mournful story ! 
The Guardian-Spirit of Erin am I, 

But dimm'd is mine ancient glory 
My priests are banish'd, my warriors wear 

No longer Victory's garland ; 
And my Child, 1 my Son, my beloved Heir, 

Is an exile in a far land ! " 



I heard no more — I saw no more — 

The bans of slumber were broken ; 
And palace and hero, and river and shore, 

Had vanish'd, and left no token. 
Dissolved was the spell that had bound 
my will 

And my fancy thus for a season ; 
But a sorrow therefore hangs o'er me still, 

Despite of the teachings of Reason ! 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



387 



THE SORROWS OF INNISFALL. 

(•FROM THE IRISH OF GEOFFREY KEATING.) 



" Om sgeel air ard-mhagh Fail ni chodlann oidhche." 

Through the long drear night I lie awake, 

for the sorrows of Innisfail. 
My bleeding heart is ready to break ; I can- 
not but weep and wail. 
•Ob, shame and grief and wonder ! her sons 
crouch lowly under 
The footstool of the paltriest foe 
That ever yet hath wrought them woe ! 

How long, O Mother of Light and Song, how 

long will they fail to see 
That men must be bold, no less than strong, 

if they truly will to be free ? 
They sit but in silent sadness, while wrongs 
that should rouse them to madness, 
Wrongs that might wake the very Dead, 
Are piled on thy devoted head ! 

Thy castles, thy towers, thy palaces proud, 

thy stately mansions all, 
Are held by the knaves who cross'd the waves 

to lord it in Brian's hall. 
Britannia, alas ! is portress in Cobhthach's 
Golden Fortress, 
And Ulster's and Momonia's lands 
Are in the Robber-stranger's hands. 

The tribe of Eogan is worn with woe ; the 

O'Donnel reigns no more ; 
O'Neill's remains lie mouldering low, on 

Italy's far-off shore ; 
And the youths of the Pleasant Valley are 
scatter'd and cannot rally, 
While foreign Despotism unfurls 
Its flag 'mid hordes of base-born churls. 

1 he chieftains of Naas were valorous lords, 

but their valor was crush'd by Graft — 

They fell beneath Envy's butcherly dagger, 

and Cailumny's poison'd shaft. 
A few of their mighty legions yet languish 
in alien regions, 
But most of 'them, the Frank, the Free, 
Were slain through Saxon perfidie ! 



Oh ! lived the Princes of Ainy's plains, and 

the heroes of green Domgole, 
And the chiefs of the Mauige, we still might 

hope to baffle our doom and dole. 
Well then might the dastards shiver who 
herd by the blue Bride river, 
But ah ! those great and glorious men 
Shall draw no glaive on Earth agen ! 

All-powerful God ! look down on the tribes 

who mourn throughout the land, 
And raise them some deliverer up, of a strong 

and smiting hand ! 
Oh ! suffer them not to perish, the race Thov 
wert wont to cherish, 
But soon avenge their fathers' graves, 
And burst the bonds that keep them slaves • 



THE TESTAMENT OF CATHAEIR MOR. 

[One of the most interesting archaeological relica connected 
with Irish literature is nnqnestionably the Testament of Cath- 
aeir Mor, King of Ireland in the second century. (Haverty'a 
History of Ireland, Farrell's Illustrated Edition, p. 37-9.) It 
is a document whose general authenticity is established be- 
yond question, though some doubt exists as to whether it was 
originally penned in the precise form in which it has come 
down to modern times. Mention of it is made by many writers 
on Irish history, and among others, by O'Flaherty in his 
Ogygia — (Part ni., c. 59). But in'the Leabhar na g-Ceart, 
or, The Book of Eights, now for the first time edited, with 
Translation and notes, by Mr. O'Donovan, for the Celtic So- 
ciety, we have it entire. The learned editor is of opinion 
that " it was drawn up in its present form some centuries 
after the death of Cathaeir Mor, when the race of his more 
illustrious sons had definite territories in Leinster." Be the 
fact as it may, the document is certainly one of those charac- 
teristic remains of an earlier age which most markedly bear 
the stamp of the peculiarities that distinguish natiye Irish 
literary productions.] 

-Jutrobttction. 
Here is the Will of Cathaeir Mor. 

God rest him. 

Among his heirs he divided his store, 

His treasures and lands, 

And, first, laying hands 

On his son Ross Faly, he bless'd him. 

" itln Soumign Jtotoer, my nobleness, 
My wealth, my strength to curse and bless, 
My royal privilege of protection, 
I leave to the son of my best affection, 
Ross Faly, Ross of the Rings, 
Worthy descendant of Ireland's Kings \ 
To serve as memorials of succession 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MAXGAN. 



For all who yet shall claim their possession 

In after ages. 
Clement and noble and bold 

Is Ross, my son. 

Then, let him not hoard up silver and gold, 

But give unto all fair measure of wages. 
Victorious in battle he ever hath been ; 

He therefore shall yield the green 
And glorious plains of Tara to none, 
No, not to his brothers ! 
Yet these shall he aid 
When attack'd or betray'd. 
This blessing of mine shall outlast the tomb, 
And live till the Day of Doom, 
Telling and telling daily, 
And a prosperous man beyond all others 
Shall prove Ross Faly !" 

Then he gave him ten shields, and ten rings, 

and ten swords, 
And ten drinking-horns ; and he spake him 
those words. 
" Brightly shall shine the glory, 
O Ross, of thy sons and heirs, 
Never shall flourish in story 

Such heroes as they and theirs !" 

Then, laying his royal hand on the head 
Of his good son, Daeet, 1 he bless'd him 
and said : — 
" iflrj t)alor, my daring, my mar- 
tial courage, 
My skill in the field, 1 leave to Daeet, 
That he be a guiding Torch and starry 
Light and Lamp to the hosts of our age. 
A hero to sway, to lead and command, 
Shall be every son of his tribes in the 

land! 
O, Daeey, with boldness and power 

Sit thou on the frontier of Tuath Lann,' 
And ravage the lands of Deas Ghower.' 

Accept no gifts for thy protection 

From woman or man. 
So shall heaven assuredly bless 
Thy many daughters with fruitfulness, 



1 Laire Barrach. Haverty's Ireland (Fan-ell's edition), 
p.SJ. 

'Tuath Laigliean, viz. North Leinster. 
• Jka) Qhabhair. viz. Sontb Leinster. 



And none shall stand above thee,- 
For I, thy sire, who love thee 

With deep and warm affection, 
I prophesy unto thee all success 

Over the green battalions 

Of the redoubtable Galions." 4 

And he gave him, thereon, as memorials and 

meeds, 
Eight bondsmen, eight handmaids, eight 

cups, and eight steeds. 

The noble Monarch of Erin's men 
Spake thus to the young Prince Brassal, 
then : — 
" ftlrj Sea, with all its wealth oi 
streams, 
I leave to my sweetly-speaking Bbassax, 
To serve and to succor him as a vassal — 
And the lands whereon the bright sun 
beams 
Around the waves of Amergin's Bay' 
As parcell'd out in the ancient day: 
By free men through a long, long time 
Shall this thy heritage be enjoy'd — 
But the chieftaincy shall at last be 
destroy'd, 
Because of a Prince's crime. 
And though others again shall regain it, 
Yet Heaven shall not bless it, 
For power shall oppress it, 
And Weakness and Baseness shall stain 
it!" 
And he gave him six ships, and six steeds, 
and six shields, 
Six mantles and six coats of steel — 
And the six royal oxen that wrought in his 
fields, 
These gave he to Brassel the Prince for 
his weal. 

Then to Catach he spake : — 

" ills borber lanbs 
Thou, CATACH, shalt take, 
But ere long they shall pass from thy hands, 

And by thee shall none 
Be ever begotten, daughter or son !" 

• Gaillam, an ancient designation, according to O'Dono- 
van, of the Laisrhnigh or Leinstermen. 

* Inbhear Aimlurgldn. originally the estuary of the Black. 
water, and *o called from Aimhenrhin. one of the sons of MI 
leeiofi, to whom it was apportioned by lot. 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAK 



QLo .fearghns £nascon spake he thus : — 

" Thou'FEARGHUS, also, art one of us, 
But over-simple in all thy ways, 

And babblest much of thy childish days. 
For thee have I nought, but if lands may be 
bought 

Or won hereafter by sword or lance, 
Of those, perchance, 

I may leave thee a part, 

All simple babbler and boy as thou art !" 

Toting Fearghus, therefore, was left be- 

reaven, 
And thus the Monarch spake to Ckeeven — 

" 8t0 mg bogie!) hero, my gentle Ckeeven, 

Who loveth in Summer, at morn and even, 
To snare the songful birds of the field, 
But shunneth to look on spear and shield, 

I have little to give of all that I share. 

His fame shall fail, his battles be rare. 

And of all the Kings that shall wear his 
crown 

But one alone shall win renown." ' 

And he gave him six cloaks, and six cups, 

and seven steeds, 
And six harness'd oxen, all fresh from the 

meads. 

But on Aenghus Nic, a younger child, 
Begotten in crime and born in woe, 

The father frown'd, as on one defiled, 

And with louring brow he spake him so : — 

*' ®0 Nic, my son, that base-born youth, 
Shall nought be given of land or gold ; 
He may be great, and good, and bold, 
But his birth is an agony all untold, 
Which gnaweth him like a serpent's tooth. 
I am no donor 

To him or his race — 

His birth was dishonor ; 

His life is disgrace !" 

And thus he spake to Eochy Tijiin, 
Deeming him fit but to herd with women : — 

" tOeak son of mine, thou shalt not gain 
Waste or water, valley or plain. 



From thee shall none descend save cravens, 
Sons of sluggish sires and mothers, 
Who shall live and die, 
But give no corpses to the ravens ! 

Mine ill thought and mine evil eye* 
On thee beyond thy brothers 
Shall ever, ever lie !" 

And to Oilioll Cadach his words were those r 

" © ©ilioll, great in coming years 
Shall be thy fame among friends and foes 
As the first of Brughaidhs 3 and Hospita- 
liers ! 
But neither noble nor warlike 

Shall show thy renownless dwelling ; 



Thou shalt dazzle at chess, 
Therein supremely excelling 
And shining like somewhat starlike !" 

And his chess-board, therefore, and chess- 
men eke, 
He gave to Oilioll Cadach the Meek. 

Now Fiacha, — youngest son was he, — 

Stood up by the bed of his father, 

who said, 
The while, caressing 
Him tenderly : — 
" My son ! I have only for thee my blessing, 
And nought beside — 
Hadst best abide 
With thy brothers a time, aB thine years are 
green." 

Then Fiacha wept, with a sorrowful mien ; 
So, Cathaeir spake, to encourage him 

g ail y, 

With cheerful speech — 
" Abide one month with thy brethren each, 
And seven years long with my son, Ross Faly. 
Do this, and thy sire, in sincerity, 
Prophesies unto thee fame and pros- 
perity." 

And further he spake, as one inspired : — 
" A Chieftain flourishing, feared and admired, 
Shall Fiacha prove ! 



»In the original— "Mo fainii ttu> eatcains," literally, "Mj 
weakness, my cnrse." 
• Public victuallers. 



3 'JO 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



The gifted Man from the boiling Berve. 1 
Him shall his brothers' clansmen serve. 
His forts shall be Aillin and proud Almain, 

He shall reign in Carman and Allen ; * 
The highest renown shall his palaces gain 
When others have crumbled and fellen. 
His power shall broaden and lengthen, 

And never know damage or loss ; 
The impregnable Naas he shall strengthen, 
And govern in Ailbhe and Arriged Ross. 
Yes ! O Fiacha, Foe of strangers, 
This shall be thy lot '. 
And thou shalt pilot 
Ladhrann and Leeven ' with steady and even 
Heart and arm through storm and dangers ! 
Overthrown by thy mighty hand 

Shall the Lords of Tara lie. 
And Taillte's 4 fair, the first in the land, 
Thou, son, shalt magnify ; 
And many a country thou yet shalt bring 
To own thy rule as Ceann and King. 
The blessing I give thee shall rest 
On thee and thy seed 

While Time shall endure, 
Thou grandson of Fiacha the Blest ! 
It is barely thy meed, 

For thy soul is childlike and pure !" 
Here ends the Will of Cathaeir Mor, who was 
King of Ireland. 



RURY AND DARVORGILLA. 

(PROM THE IRISH.) 
[Ruaghrl, Prince of Oriel, after an absence of two days and 
nights from hie own territories on a hunting expedition, sud- 
denly recollects that he has forgotten his wedding-day. He 
despairs of forgiveness from the bride whom he appears to 
have slighted. nearbhorgilla, daughter of Prince Cairtre, hut 
would scorn her too much to wed her if she could forgive him. 
He accordingly prepares for battle with her and her father, but 
unfortunately intrusts the command of his forces to one of his 
most aged Ceanns or Captains. He is probably incited to the 
selection of this chieftain by a wish to avoid provoking hostili- 
ties, which, however, if they occur, he will meet by defiance 
and conflict ; but his choice proves to have been a fatal one. 
His Ceann is seized with a strange feeling of fear in the midst 
of the fray ; and this, being communicated to his troops, en- 
larges into a panic, and Ruaghri's followers are slaughtered. 
Ruagnri himself arrives next day on the battle-plain, and, per- 
ceiving the result of the contest, stabs himself to the heart. 
Dearbhorgilia witnesses this sad catastrophe from a distance, 

1 Bearbha, viz., the river Barrow. 

' The localities mentioned here were chiefly residences of 
the ancient kings of Leinster. 

1 Forts upon the eastern coasts of Ireland. 

« TaMti, now Teltown, a village between Kells and Navan, 
to Heath. 



and, rushing toward the scene of it, clasps her lover iu her 
arms ; but her stern father, following, tears her away from tuo 
bleeding corpse, and has her cast in his wrath, it is supposed, 
into one of the dungeons of bis castle. But of her fate nothing 
certain is known afterward; though, from subsequent cir- 
cumstances, it is conjectured that she perished, the victim of 
her lover'sthoughtlessness and her father's tyranny.! 

Know ye the tale of the Prince of Oriel, 
Of Rury, last of his line of kings? 

I pen it here as a sad memorial 

Of how much woe reckless folly brings. 

Of a time that Rury rode woodwards, clothed 
In silk and gold on a hunting chase, 

He thought like thunder' on his betroth'd, 
And with clinch'd hand he smote his face. 

"Foreer!* Mobhron! 1 Princess Darvorgilla ! 

Forgive she will not a slight like this ; 
But could she, dared she, I should be still a 

Base wretch to wed her for heaven's best- 
bliss ! 



Foreer ! Princess Darvorgilla ! 
She has four hundred young bowmen bold I 
But I — I love her, and would not spill a 
Drop of their blood for ten torques' of gold. 



" Still, woe to all who provoke to slaughter ! 

I count as nought, weigh'd with fame like 
mine, 
The birth and beauty of Cairtre's daughter ; 

So, judge the sword between line and line ! 



" Thou, therefore, Calbhach,' go call a mus- 
ter, 

And wind the bugle by fort and dun ! 
When stain shall tarnish our house's lustre, 

Then sets in darkness the noon-day sun !" 

But Calbhach answer'd, " Light need to do 
so ! 

Behold the noblest of hero's here ! 
What foe confronts us, I reck not whoso, 

Shall fly before us like hunted deer !" 



the thought c 
"Alas I 

7 Pronounced Mo vrone, and means My grief 1 

8 Royal neck-ornaments. 

• Calbhach,— proper name of a man.— derived from C»lb» 
bald-pated. 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



Spake Rury then : " Calbhach, as thou 
wiliest ! 

But see, old man, there be brief delay — 
For this chill parle is of all things ehillest, 

And my fleet courser must now away ! 

" Yet, though thou march with thy legions 
townwards, 
Well arm'd for ambush or treacherous 
fray, 
Still show they point their bare weapons 
downwards, 
As those of warriors averse to slay !" 

Now, when the clansmen were arm'd and 
mounted, 

The aged Calbhach gave way to fears ; 
For, foot and horseman, they barely counted 

A hundred cross-bows and forty spears. 



And thus exclaim'd he : " My soul is ; 

We die the death, not of men but 
We sleep the sleep from which none awaken, 

And scorn shall point at our tombless 
graves ! " 

Then out spake Fergal : " A charge so 
weighty 
As this, O Rury, thou shouldst not throw 
On a drivelling dotard of eight-and-eighty, 
Whose arm is nerveless for spear or 
bow ! " 

But Rury answer'd : " Away ! To-morrow 

Myself will stand in Traghvally 1 town ; 
But, come what may come, this day I bor- 
row 
To hunt through Glafna the brown deer 
down !" 

So, through the nignt, unto gray Traghvally, 
The feeble Ceann led his hosts along ; 

But, faint and heart-sore, they could not rally, 
So deeply Rury had wrought them wrong. 

Now, when the Princess beheld advancing 
Her lover's troops with their arms re- 
versed, 
In lieu of broadswords and chargers prancing, 
She felt her heart's hopes were dead and 
hearsed. 



And on her knees to her ireful father 
She pray'd : " O father, let this pass by ; 

War not against the brave Rury ! Rather 
Pierce this fond bosom and let me die !" 

But Cairtre rose in volcanic fury, 

And so he spake : "By the might of God ; 

1 hold no terms with this craven Rury 
Till he or I lie below the sod ! 

" Thou shameless child ! Thou, alike un- 
worthy 
Of him, thy father, who speaks thee thus, 
And her, my Mhearb, 2 who in sorrow bore 
thee ; 
Wilt thou dishonor thyself and us ? 

" Behold ! I march with my serried bowmen 
—Four hundred thine and a thousand 
mine; 

I march to crush these degraded foemen 
Who gorge the ravens ere day decline !" 

Meet now both armies in mortal struggle, 
The spears are shiver'd, the javelins fly 

But, what strange terror, what mental juggle, 
Be those that speak out of Calbhach's eye ? 

It is— it must be, some spell Satanic, 
That masters him and his gallant host. 

Woe, woe the day ! An inglorious panic 
O'erpowers the legions— and all is lost ! 

Woe, woe that day, and that hour of car 



Too well they witness to Fergal's truth ! 
Too well in bloodiest appeal they warn Age 
Not lightly thus to match swords with 
Youth ! 

When Rury reach'd, in the red of morning, 
The battle-ground, it was he who felt 

The dreadful weight of this ghastly warning, 
And what a blow had o'ernight been dealt ! 

So, glancing round him, and sadly groaning^ 
He pierced his breast with his noble blade ; 

Thus all too mournfully mis-atoning 
For that black ruin his word had made. 







POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



But hear ye further ! When Cairtre's daugh- 
ter 

Saw what a fate had o'erta'en her Brave, 
Her eyes became as twin founts of water, 

Her heart again as a darker grave. 

Clasp now thy lover, unhappy maiden ! 

But, see ! thy sire tears thine arms away ! 
And in a dungeon, all anguish laden, 

Shalt thou be cast ere the shut of day. 

But what shall be in the sad years coming 
Thy doom ? I know not, but guess too well 

That sunlight never shall trace thee roaming 
Ayond the gloom of thy sunken cell ! 

This is the tale of the Prince of Oriel 

And Darvorgilla, both sprung of Kings ! 

I trace it here as a dark memorial 

Of how much woe thoughtless folly brings. 



THE EXPEDITION AND DEATH OF KING 
DATHY.' 

(FROM THE IRISH.) 

King Dathy assembled his Druids and Sages, 
And thus he spake them : "Druids and Sages ! 

What of king Dathy ? 
What is reveal'd in Destiny's pages 

Of him or his ? Hath he 
Aught for the Future to dread or to dree ? 
Good to rejoice in, or Evil to flee ? 

Is he a foe of the Gall — 
Fitted to conquer or fated to fall ?" 

And Beirdra, the Druid, made answer as thus : 

A priest of a hundred years was he — 
" Dathy ! thy fate is not hidden from us ! 

Hear it through me ! 
Thou shalt work thine own will ! 

Thou shalt slay — thou shalt prey — 
And be conqueror still ! 

Thee the Earth shall not harm ! 

Thee we charter and charm 

From all evil and ill ; 

Thee the laurel shall crown ! 

Thee the wave shall not drown ! 



Thee the chain shall not bind ! 

Thee the spear shall not find ! 

Thee the sword shall not slay ! 

Thee the shaft shall not piewfe 
Thou, therefore, be fearless and fierce, 
And sail with thy warriors away 

To the lands of the Gall, 

There to slaughter and sway, 

And be Victor o'er all !" 

So Dathy he sail'd away, away, 
Over the deep resounding ses> ; 

Sail'd with his hosts in armor gray 
Over the deep resounding sea, 

Many a night and many a day ; 
And many an islet conquer' J he — 

He and his hosts in armor gray. 
And the billow drown'd him not, 
And a fetter bound him not, 
And the blue spear found him not, 
And the red sword slew him not, 
And the swift shaft knew him not, 
And the foe o'erthrew iiim not. 

Till one bright morn, at the base 

Of the Alps, in rich Ausonia's regions, 

His men stood marshall'd face to face 
With the mighty Roman legions. 
Noble foes ! 

Christian and Heathen stood there among 
those, 

Resolute all to overcome, 

Or die for the Eagles of Ancient Rome ! 

Whon behold from a temple anear 

Came forth an aged priest-like man, 
Of a countenance meek and clear, 

Who, turning to Eire's Ceann," 
Spake him as thus : " King Dathy, hear! 

Thee would I warn ! 
Retreat ! retire ! Repent in time 

The invader's crime. 
Or better for thee thou hadst never been 

born !" 
But Dathy replied : " False Nazarene ! 

Dost thou, then, menace Dathy, thou ? 

And dreamest thou that he will bow 
To one unknown, to one so mean, 
So powerless as a priest must be ? 
He scorns alike thy threats and thee ! 
On ! on, my men, to victory !" 

» Ceaim— Head, King. 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAX. 



Ana -vith loud shouts for Eire's King, 
The Irish rush to meet the foe, 

And fai.-.nions clash and bucklers ring — 
When, lo ! 

Lo ! a mighfv earthquake's shock ! 

And the cleft piains reel and rock ; 

Clouds of darkness pall the skies ; 
Thunder crashes, 
Lightning flashes, 

And in an instant Dathy lies 

On the earth a mass of blacken'd ashes ! 

Then mournfully and dolefully, 
The Irish warriors sail'd away 
Over the deep resounding sea, 

Till, wearily and mournfully, 

They anchor'd in Eblana's Bay. 

Thus the Seanachies ' and Sages, 

Tell this tale of lonsr-srone ages. 



PRINCE ALDFRID'S ITINERARY 
THROUGH IRELAND. 

(FROM THE IRISH.) 

. [Amongst the Anglo-Saxon students resorting to Ireland, 
was Prince Aldfrid, afterward King of the Northumbrian 
Saxons. His having been educated there about the year 634, 
is corroborated by venerable Bcde in his " Life of St. Cuth- 
bert." The original poem, of which this is a translation, at- 
tributed to Atafrid, is still extant in the Irish language.] 

I found in Innisfail the fail-, 

In Ireland, while in exile there, 

Women of worth, both grave and gay men, 

Many clerics and many laymen. 

I travell'd its fruitful provinces round, 
And in every one of the five * I found, 
Alike in church and in palace hall, _ . 
Abundant apparel, and food for all. 

Gold and silver I found, and money, 
Plenty of wheat and plenty of honey; 
I found God's people rich in pity, 
Found many a feast and many a city. 

I also found in Armagh, the splendid, 
Meekness, wisdom, and prudence blended, 
Fasting, as Christ hath recommended, 
And noble councillors untranscended. 



I found in each great church moreo'er, 
Whether on island or on shore, 
Piety, learning, fond affection, 
Holy welcome and kind protection. 

I found the good lay monks and brothers 
Ever beseeching help for others, 
And in their keeping the holy word 
Pure as it came from Jesus the Lord. 

I found in Munster unfetter'd of any, 
Kings and queens, and poets a many — 
Poets well skill'd in music and measure, 
Prosperous doings, mirth and pleasure. 

I found in Connaught the just, redundance 
Of riches, milk in lavish abundance ; 
Hospitality, vigor, fame, 
In Cruachan's s land of heroic name. 

I found in the country of Connall 4 the glorious 
Bravest heroes, ever victorious ; 
Fair-complexion'd men and warlike, 
Ireland's lights, the high, the starlike ! 

I found in Ulster, from hill to glen, 
Hardy warriors, resolute men ; 
Beauty that bloom'd when youth was gone, 
And strength transmitted from sire to son. 

I found in the noble district of Boyle 

(MS. here illegible.) 
Brehon's," Erenachs, weapons bright, 
And horsemen bold and sudden in fight. 

I found in Leinster the smooth and sleek, 
From Dublin to Slewmargy's * peak ; 
Flourishing pastures, valor, health, 
Long-living worthies, commerce, wealth. 



I found besides, from Ara to Glea, 
In the broad rich country of Ossorie, 
Sweet fruits, good laws for all and each, 
Great chess-players, men of truthful speech. 



» Cruachan, or Croghan, was the name of the royal palace of 
Connaught. 
4 Tyrconnell, the present Donegal. 

1 Brehon— a law judge ; Erenach— a rnler, an archdeacon. 
" Slewmargy, a mountain in the Queen's county, near thi 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MAXGAX. 



I found in Meath's fair principality, 
Virtue, vigor, and hospitality; 
Candor, joyfulness, bravery, purity, . 
Ireland's bulwark and security. 

I found strict morals in age and youth, 
I found historians recording truth ; 
The things I sing of in verse unsmooth, 
I found them all — I have written sooth. 



(fkom tiie raisn.) 

[This poem is ascribed to the celebrated poet MacLiag, the 
secretary of the renowned monarch Brian Born, who, as is well 
known, fell at the battle of Clontarf, in 1014, and the subject 
of it is a lamentation for the fallen condition of Kinkora, the 
palace of that monarch, consequent on his death. The de- 
cease of JtacLiag is recorded in the "Annals of the Four Mas- 
ters," as having taken place in 1015. A great number of his 
poems are still hi existence, but none of them have obtained 
a popularity so widely extended as his "Lament." Kinkora 
(Ceann Coradh. i. e., Head of the Weir) was situated on the 
hank of the Shannon : its site is occupied by the present town 
of Killaloe, but no vestiges remain of the fortress and palace 
cf Brian. (See Haverty's History of Ireland, Farrell's Edition, 
p. 132.) 

Oh, where, Kinkora ! is Brian the Great ? 
And where is the beauty that once was 
thine ? 
Oh, where are the princes and nobles that sate 
At the feast in thy halls, and drank the 
red wine ! 

Where, O Kinkora ? 



Oh, -where, Kinkora! are thy valorous lords? 
Oh, whither, thou Hospitable! are they 
gone? 
Oh, -where are the Dalcassians of the golden 
swords ? * 
And where are the warriors Brian led on ? 
Where, O Kinkora ? 

And where is Morrogh, the descendant of 
kings ; 
The defeater of a hundred — the daringly 
brave — 



1 " Bode assures ns that the Irish were a harmless and friend 
ly people. To them many of the Angles had been accustomed 
to resort in search of knowledge, und on all occasions had 
been received kindly and supported gratuitously. Aldfrid 
lived in spontaneous exile among the Scots (Irish) through his 
desire of kuowledge, and was called to the throne of North- 
umbria, after the decease of his brother Egfrid, in 6S5." Lin< 
tariff England, vol, 1, chap, ii 

> Volg 



Who set but slight store by jewels and rings— 
Who swam down the torrent and laugh'4 
at its wave ? 

Where, O Kinkora ? 

And where is Donogh, King Brian's worthy 

son? 

And where is Conaing, the beautiful chief? 

And Kian and Core ? Alas ! they are gone ; 

They have left me this night alone with 

my grief! 

Left me, Kinkora ! 

And where are the chiefs with whom Brian 
went forth, 
The never-vanquish'd sons of Erin the 
brave, 
The great King of Ouaght, renown'd for his 
worth, 
And the hosts of Baskinn from the western 
wave? 

Where, O Kinkora? 

Oh, where is Duvlann of the Swift-footed 
Steeds ? 
And where is Kian,who was son of Molloy ? 
And where is King Lonergan, the fame of 
whose deeds 
In the red battle-field no time can destroy ? 
Where, O Kinkora? 

And where is that youth of majestic height, 
The faith-keeping Prince of the Scots ? 
Even he, 
As wide as his fame was, as great as was his- 
might, 
Was tributary, O Kinkora, to thee ! 

Thee, Kinkora ! 

They are gone, those heroes of royal birth, 
Who plunder'd no churches, and broke 
no trust ; 
'Tis weary for me to be living on earth, 
When they, Kinkora, lie low in the dust I 
Low, O Kinkora ! 

Oh, never again will Princes appear, 

To rival the Dalcassians 3 of the Cleaving 
Swords ; 



the swords of Gold— I. e. of the Gold-hilled 



LThe Dalcassians \ 



Brian's body-guard. 




KING BRIAN BEFORE THE BATTLE OF CLONTARF 



< 






POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



[ can never dream of meeting afar or anear, 
In the east or the west, such heroes and 
lords ! 

Never, Kinkora ! 



Oh, dear are the images my memory calls up 

Of Brian Boru ! — how he never would miss 

To give me, at the hanquet, the first bright 

cup! 

Ah ! why did he heap on me honor like 

this? 

Why, O Kinkora ? 



I am MacLiag, and my home is on the Lake : 

Thither often, to that palace whose beauty 

is fled, 

Came Brian, to ask me, and I went for his 

sake : 

Oh, my grief ! that I should live, and Brian 



Dead, O Kinkora ! 



LAMENT FOR THE PRINCES OF TYRONE 
AND TYRCONNELL. 

(FROM TILE IRISH.) 

[This is an Elegy on the death of the princes of Tyrone and 
Tyrconnell, who having fled with others from Ireland in the 
year 1607, and afterward dying at Home tO'Donnell in 1608, 
O'Neill in 1616.— Haverty's Ireland. ParreU's Edition, p. 459), 
were interred on St. Peter's Hill, in one grave. The poem is 
the production of O'Donnell's bard, Owen Roe Mac an Bhaird, 
or Ward, who accompanied the family in their exile, and is ad- 
dressed to Nnala, O'Donnell's sister, who was also one of the 
fugitives. As the circumstances connected with the ilight of 
the Northern Earls, which led to the subsequent confiscation 
of the sis Ulster Counties by James I., may not be immediate- 
ly in the recollection of many of our readers, it may be proper 
briefly to state, that it was caused by the discovery of a letter 
directed to Sir William Ussher, Clerk of the Council, dropped 
in the Council-chamber on the 7th of May. and which accused 
the Northern chieftains generally of a conspiracy to overthrow 
the government. The charge is now totally disbelieved. As 
an illustration of the poem, and as an interesting piece of 
hitherto unpublished literature in itself, we extract the ac- 
count of the flight as recorded in the Annals of the Pour Mas- 
ters, and translated by Mr. O'Donovnn: "Maguire (Cucon- 
naught) and Donogh, son of Mahon, who was son of the Bishop 
O'Brien, sailed in a ship to Ireland, and put in at the harbor 
of Swilly. They then took with them from Ireland the Earl 
O'Neill (Hugh, son of Fedoragh) and the Earl O'Donnell (Hory, 
son of Hugh, who was son of Magnus) and many others of the 
nobles of the province of Ulster. These are the persons who 
wont with O'Neill, namely, his Countess, Catherina, daughter 
ef Magennis, and her three sons ; Hugh, the Baron, John, and 



Brian ; Art Oge, son of Connac, who was son of the Baron ; 
Ferdoragh, son of Con, who was! son of O'Neill : Hugh Oge, 
son of Brian, who was son of Art O'Neill : and many others of 
his most intimate friends. These were they who went with, 
the Earl O'Donnell, namely, Caffer, his brother, with his sister 
Nuala ; Hugh, the Earl's child, wanting three weeks of being- 
one year old ; Hose, daughter of O'Doherty and wife of Caffer, 
with her son Hugh, aged two years and three months ; his- 
(Rory's) brother's son Donnell Oge, son of Donnel, Naghtan, 
son of Calvach, who was son of Donogh Cairbreach O'Donnell, 
and many others of his intimate friends. They embarked on 
the festival of the Holy Cross in autumn. This was a distin 
gnished company ; and it is certain that the sea has not borne 
and the wind has not wafted in modern times a number of per- 
sons in one ship more eminent, illustrious, or noble in point 
of genealogy, heroic deeds, valor, feats of arms, and brave 
achievements than they. Would that God had but permitted 
them to remain in their patrimonial inheritances until the chil- 
dren should arrive at the age of manhood ! Woe to the heart 
that meditated, woe to the mind that conceived, woe to the 
council that recommended the project of this expedition, with- 
out knowing whether they should, to the end of their liveB, be 
able to return to their native principalities or patrimonies." 
The Earl of Tyrone was the illustrious Hugh O'Neill, the Irish, 
leader in the wars against Elizabeth.] 

O Woman of the Piercing Wail, 

Who mournest o'er yon mound of clay 
With sigh and groan, 
Would God thou wert among the Gael I 
Thou wouldst not then from day to day 
Weep thus alone. 
'Twere long before, around a grave 
In green Tirconnell, one could find 
This loneliness ; 
Near where Beann-Boirche's banners wave 
Such grief as thine could ne'er have pined 
Companionless. 

Beside the wave, in Donegal, 

In Antrim's glens, or fair Dromore, 
Or Killillee, 
Or where the sunny waters fall, 
At Assaroe, near Erna's shore, 
This could not be. 
On Derry's plains — in rich Drumcliefl" — 
Throughout Armagh the Great, renown'd 
In olden years, 
No day could pass but woman's grief 
Would rain upon the burial-ground 
Fresh floods of tears ! 

Oh, no ! — from Shannon, Boyne, and Suir, 
From high Dunluce's castle-walls, 
From Lissadill, 
Would flock alike both rich and poor. 

One wail would rise from Cruachan's hall» 
To Tara's hill ; 
And some would come from Barrow-side, 






POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



And many a maid would leave her home 

On Leitrim's plains, 
And by melodious Banna's tide, 

And by the Mourne and Erne, to come 

And swell thy strains ! 

Oh, horses' hoofs would trample down 
The Mount whereon the martyr-saint ' 
Was crucified. 
From glen and hill, from plain and town, 
One loud lament, one thrilling plaint, 
Would echo wide. 
There would not soon be found, I ween, 
One foot of ground among those bands, 
For museful thought, 
So many shriekers of the keen ' 

Would cry aloud, and clap their hands, 
All woe-distraught ! 

Two princes of the line of Conn 
Sleep in their cells of clay beside 
O'Donnell Roe: 
Three royal youths, alas ! are gone, 
Who lived for Erin's weal, but died 
For Erin's woe ! 
Ah ! could the men of Ireland read 
The names these noteless burial-stones 
Display to view, 
Their wounded hearts afresh would bleed, 
Their tears gush forth again, their groans 
Resound anew ! 



The youths whose relics moulder here 

Were sprung from Hugh, high Prince 
and Lord 
Of Aileach's lands ; 
Thy noble brothers, justly dear, 
Thy nephew, long to be deplored 
By Ulster's' bands. 
Theirs were not souls wherein dull Time 
Could domicile Decay or house 
Decrepitude ! 
They pass'd from Earth ere Manhood's prime, 
Ere years had power to dim their brows 
Or chill their blood. 



1 St. Peter. Thi6 passage is not exactly a blunder, though 
at first it may Beem one ; the poet supposes the grave Itself 
transferred to Ireland, and he naturally includes in the trans- 
ference the whole of the immediate locality around the grave. 
— Tr. 

• Keen or Caolne, the foneral-waU. 



And who can marvel o'er thy grief. 
Or who can blame thy flowing tears, 
That knows their source ? 
O'Donnell, Dunnasava's chief, 
Cut off amid his vernal years, 
Lies here a corse 
Beside his brother Cathbar, whom 
Tirconnell of the Helmets mourns 
In deep despair— 
For valor, truth, and comely bloom, 
For all that greatens and adorns, 
A peerless pair. 

Oh, had these twain, and he, the third, 
The Lord of Mourne, O'Niall's son, 
Their mate in death — 
A prince in look, in deed and word — 
Had these three heroes yielded on 
The field their breath, 
Oh, had they fallen on Criffan's plain, 
There would not be a town or clan 
From shore to sea, 
But would with shrieks bewail the Slain, 
Or chant aloud the exulting rann* 
Of jubilee ! 

When high the shout of battle rose, 

On fields where Freedom's torch still 
burn'd 

Through Erin's gloom, 
If one, if barely one of those 

Were slain, all Ulster would have mourn'd 
The hero»s doom ! 
K at Athboy, where hosts of brave 
Ulidian horsemen sank beneath 
The shock of spears, 
Young Hugh O'Neill had found a grave, 
Long must the north have wept his death 
With heart- wrung; tears ! 



H on the day of Ballachmyre 

The Lord of Mourne had met, thus young, 
A warrior's fate, 
In vain would such as thou desire 

To mourn, alone, the champion sprung 
From Niall the Great ! 
No marvel this — for all the Dead, 
Heap'd on the field, pile over pile, 
At Mullach-brack, 



1 Song. 









POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



Were scarce an eric' for his head, 
If Death had stay'd his footsteps while 
On victory's track ! 

If on the Day of Hostages 
The fruit had from the parent bough 
Been rudely torn 
In sight of Munster's hands — MacNee's — 
Such blow the blood of Conn, I trow, 
Could ill have borne. 
If on the day of Balloch-boy, 

Some arm had lain, by foul surprise, 
The chieftain low, 
Even our victorious shout of joy 

"Would soon give place to rueful cries 
And groans of woe ! 

If on the day the Saxon host 

Were forced to fly — a day so great 
For Ashanee 3 
The Chief had been untimely lost, 

Our conquering troops should moderate 
Their mirthful glee. 
There would not lack on Lifford's day, 
From Galway, from the glens of Boyle, 
From Limerick's towers, 
A marshall'd file, a long array, 
Of mourners to bedew the soil 
With tears in showers ! 

[f on the day a sterner fate 

Compell'd his flight from Athenree, 
His blood had flow'd, 
What numbers all disconsolate 
Would come unask'd, and share with thee 
Aflliction's load ! 
If Derry's crimson field had seen 
His life-blood offer'd up, though 'twere 
On Victory's shrine, 
A thousand cries would swell the keen, 
A thousand voices of despair 
Would echo thine ! 

Oh, had the fierce Dalcassian swarm 
That bloody night on Fergus' banks 
But slain our Chief, 
When rose his camp in wild alarm — 
How would the triumph of his ranks 
Be dash'd with grief ! 
How would the troops of Murbach mourn 



1 A compensation or fine. 



If on the Curlew Mountains' day, 

Which England rued, 
Some Saxon hand had left them lorn, 
By shedding there, amid the fray, 

Their prince's blood ! 

Red would have been our warriors' eyes 
Had Roderick found on Sligo's field 
A gory grave, 
No Northern Chief would soon arise 
So sage to guide, so strong to shield, 
S) swift to save. 
Long would Leith-Cuinn have wept if Hugh 
Had met the death he oft had dealt 
Among the foe ; 
But, had our Roderick fallen too, 
All Erin must, alas ! have felt 
The deadly blow ! 

What do I say ? Ah, woe is me ! 
Already we bewail in vain 
Their fatal fall ! 
And Erin, once the Great and Free, 
Now vainly mourns her breakless chain 
And iron thrall ! 
Then, daughter of O'Donnell, dry 
Thine overflowing eyes, and turn 
Thy heart aside, 
For Adam's race is born to die, 
And sternly the sepulchral urn 
Mocks human pride ! 

Look not, nor sigh, for earthly throne, 
Nor place thy trust in arm of clay, 
But on thy knees 
Uplift thy soul to God alone, 

For all things go their destined way 
As He decrees. 
Embrace the faithful Crucifix, 

And seek the path of pain and prayer 
Thy Saviour trod ; 
Nor let thy spirit intermix 

With earthly hope and worldly care 
Its groans to God ! 

And Thou, O mighty Lord ! whose ways 
Are far above our feeble minds 
To understand, 
Sustain us in these doleful days, 

And render light the chain that binds 
Our fallen land ! 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



Look down upon our dreary state, 
And through the ages that may still 
Roll sidly on, 
Watch Thou o'er hapless Erin's fate, 
And shield at least from darker ill 
The blood of Conn ! 

"The Saturday before the flight, the Earl of Tyrone was 
with the lord-iieputy at Slxne. where he had spoken with hie 
lordship of Ms journey into ERgland, and told him he would 
lip there about the beginning of Michaelmas term, according 
to his majesty's directions. He took leave of the lord-deputy 
in a more sail and passionate manner than wao usual with 
him. From thence he went to Mellifont and Garret Moore's 
house, wheie he wept abundantly when he took his leave, giv- 
ing a solemn farewell to every child and every servant in the 
house, which made them all marvel, because in general it was 
not hie manner to use such compliments. On Monday he 
went to Dungarvan, where he rested two whole days, and on 
Wednesday night, they say he travelled all night. It is like- 
wise reported that the countess, his wife, being exceedingly 
weary, slipped down from her horse, and weeping, said. ' She 
could go no fun her." Whereupon the earl drew his sword, 
and swore a great oath that ' he would kill her on the spot if 
she would not pass on wiih him, and put. on a more cheerful 
countenance.' When the party, which consisted (men, wo- 
men, and children) of fifty or sixty persons, arrived at Loch 
Foyle, it was found that their journey had not been so secret 
but that the irovemor there had notice of it, and sent to invite 
Tyrone and his son to dinner. Their haste, however, was 
such that they accepted not his courtesy, but hastened on to 
Tiathmulla. a town on the west side of Lough Swilly, where 
the Earl Tyrconnell and his company met with them. From 
thence the whole party embarked, and, landing on the coast 
of Normandy, proceeded through France to Brussels. Davies 
concludes his curious narrative with a few pregnant words, 
in which the difficulties that England had to contend with in 
conquering Tyrone arc fnus acknowledged with all the lrank- 
nesB of a generous foe :— ' As for us that, are here," he says, 
'we are glad to see the day wherein the countenance and 
majesty of the law and civil government hath banished Ty- 
rone out of Ireland, which the best army iu Europe, and the 
expense of two millions of sterling pounds had not been able 
.to bring to pass.' "—Moore's Ireland. 



O'HUSSErS ODE TO THE MAGUIRE.' 

IP'Hussey, the last hereditary bard of the great sept of Ma- 
guire, of Fermanagh, who flourished about 1630, possessed a 
fine genius. He commenced his vocation when quite a youth, 
by a poem celebrating the escape of the famous Hugh Roe 
O'Donnell from Dublin Castle, in 1591, into which he had 
been treacherously betrayed. (Haverty's History of Ireland, 
Farrell's Edition, p. 408.) The noble ode which O'Hussey ad- 
dressed to Hugh Maguire, when that chief had gone on a dan- 
gerous expedition, in the depth of an unusually severe winter, 
is as interesting an example of the devoted affection of the 
bard to his chief, and as vivid a picture of intense desolation, 
as could be well conceived.] 

Where is my Chief, my Master, this bleak 

night, mavrone! 
Oh, cold, cold, miserably cold is this bleak 

night for Hugh, 

1 Mr. Ferguson, in a fine piece of criticism on this poem, re- 
marks: "There is a vivid vigor in these descriptions, and a 
•mvage power in the antithetical climax, which claim a char- 
acter almost approaching to sublimity. Nothing can be more 



Its showery, arrowy, speary sleet pierceth 

one through and through 
Pierceth one to the very bone ! 
Rolls real thunder ? Or was tha: red, livid 

light 
Only a meteor ? I scarce know ; but through 

the midnight dim 
The pitiless ice-wind streams. Except the 

hate that persecutes him 
Nothing hath crueler venomy might. 

An awful, a tremendous night is this, me- 
seems ! 

The floodgates of the rivers of heaven, I think, 
have been burst wide — 

Down from the overcharged clouds, like un- 
to headlong ocean's tide, 

Descends gray rain in roaring streams. 

Though he were even a wolf ranging the round 

green woods, 
Though he were even a pleasant salmon in 

the unchainable sea, 
Though he were a wild mountain-eagle, he 

could scarce bear, he, 
This sharp, sore sleet, these howling floods. 

Oh, mournful is my soul this night for Hugh 
Maguire ! 

Darkly, as in a dream he strays ! Before 
him and behind 

Triumphs the tyrannous anger of the wound- 
ing wind, 

The wounding wind, that burns as fire ! 

It is my bitter grief — it cuts me to the heart — 
That in the country of Clan Darry this should 

be his fate ! 
Oh, woe is me, where is he ? Wandering, 

houseless, desolate, 
Alone, without or guide or chart ! 



graphic, yet more diversified, than his images of unmitigated 
horror — nothing more gpandly startling than his heroic concep- 
tion of the glow of glory triumphant over frozen toil. Wo 
have never read this poem without recurring, and that by no 
unworthy association, to Napoleon in hiB Russian campaign. 
Yet, perhaps O'Hussey has conjured up a picture of more 
inclement desolation, in his rude idea of northern horrors, 
than could be legitimately employed by a poet of the present 
day, when the romance of geographical obscurity no longer 
permits us to imagine the Phlegrean regions of endless storm, 
where the snows of Hajmus fall mingled with the lightnings 
of Etna, amid Bistonian wilds or Hyrcanian forests."— Dub- 
tin University Magazine, vol. iv. 



TOEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



Medreams I see just now his face, the straw- 
berry-bright, 

Uplifted to the blacken'd heavens, while the 
tempestuous winds 

Blow fiercely over and round him, and the 
smiting sleet-shower blinds 

The hero of Gal ang to-night ! 

Large, large affliction unto me and mine it is, 
That one of his majestic bearing, his fair, 

stately form, 
Should thus be tortured and o'erborne — that 

this unsparing storm 
Should wreak its wrath on head like his ! 

That his great hand, so oft the avenger of 

the oppress'd, 
Should this chill, churlish night, perchance, 

be paralyzed by frost — 
While through some icicle-hung thicket — as 

one lorn and lost — 
He walks and wanders without rest. 

The tempest-driven torrent deluges the 

mead, 
It overflows the low banks of the rivulets 

and ponds — 
The lawns and pasture-grounds lie lock'd in 

icy bonds, 
So that the cattle cannot feed. 

The pale bright margins of the streams are 
seen by none. 

Rushes and sweeps along the untamable 
flood on every side — 

It penetrates and fills the cottagers' dwell- 
ings far and wide — 

Water and land are blent in one. 

Through some dark woods, 'mid bones of 
monsters, Hugh now strays, 

As he confronts the storm with anguish'd 
heart, but manly brow — 

Oh ! what a sword-wound to that tender heart 
of his were now 

A backward glance at peaceful days ! 

But other thoughts ape his — thoughts that 

can still inspire 
With joy and an onward-bounding hope the 

bosom of MacNee — 



Thoughts of his warriors charging like bright 

billows of the sea, 
Borne on the wind's wings, flashing fire ! 

And though frost glaze to-night the clear 

dew of his eyes, 
And white ice-gauntlets glove his noble fine 

fair fingers o'er, 
A warm dress is to him that lightning-garb 

he ever wore, 
The lightning of the soul, not skies. 



Hugh march'd forth to the fight — I grieved 

to see him so depart ; 
And lo ! to-night he wanders frozen, rain- 

drench'd, sad, betray'd — 
But the memory of the lime-white mansions 

his- right hand hath laid 
In ashes, warms the herd's heart I 



of 



KATHALEEN NY-HOULAHAN." 

(A JACOBITE RELIC — FROM THE IRISH.) 

Long they pine in weary woe, the noble 

our land, 
Long they wander to and fro, proscribed, 

alas ! and bann'd ; 
Feastless, houseless, altarless, they bear the 

exile's brand ; 
But their hope is in the coming-to of 

Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan ! 

Think her not a ghastly hag, too hideous to 

be seen, 
Call her not unseemly names, our matchless 

Kathaleen ; 
Young she is, and fair she is, and would be 

crown'd a queen, 
Were the king's son at home here with 

Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan ! 

Sweet and mild would look her face, oh none 
so sweet and mild. 



> A concluding stanza, generally intended as a recapitu.a- 
tlon of the entire poem. 

• Angliee, Catherine Holohan, a name by which Ireland vu 
allegorically known. 



too 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



Could she crush the foes by whom her beauty 

is reviled ; 
Woollen plaids would grace herself and 

robes of eilk her child, 
If the king's son were living here with 

Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan ! 

Sore disgrace it is to see the Arbitress of 
thrones, 

Vassal to a Saxoneen of cold and sapless 
bones ! 

Bitter anguish wrings our souls — with heavy 
sighs and groans 
We wait the Young Deliverer of Katha- 
leen Ny-Houlahan ! 

Let us pray to Him who holds Life's issues 

in his hands — 
Him who form'd the mighty globe, with all 

its thousand lands ; 
Girding them with seas and mountains, rivers 

deep, and strands, 
To cast a look of pity upon Kathaleen 

Ny-Houlahan ! 

He, who over sands and waves led Israel 

along — 
He, who fed, with heavenly bread, that 

chosen tribe and throng — 
He, who stood by Moses, when his foes were 

fierce and strong- 
May He show forth His might in saving 

Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan ! 



WELCOME TO THE PRINCE. 

(A JACOBITE RELIC— FROM THE IRISH.) 

[This was written about the period of the battle of Cnlloden 
(87th April, 1746), by William IleiTcrnan, snrnamed Dall, or 
the Blind, of Shronehill, county Tipperary.] 

Lift up the drooping head, 

Meehal Dubh MacGiolla-Kierin !' 

Her blood yet boundcth red 

Through the myriad veins of Erin. 

No ! no ! she is not de-ad 

Meehal Dubh MacGiolla-Kierin ! 



' IHrk Michael M'QUla Kerin, prince &! Oasory. 



Lo ! she redeems 
The lost years of bygone ages — 

New glory beams 
Henceforth on her History's pages ! 
Her long penitential Night of Sorrow 
Yields at length before the reddening mor- 



You heard the thunder-shout, 

Meehal Dubh MacGiolla-Kierin! 

Saw the lightning streaming out 
O'er the purple hills of Erin ! 

And, bide you yet in doubt, 

Meehal Dubh MacGiolla-Kierin? 
Oh ! doubt no more ! 

Through Ulidia's voiceful valleys, 
On Shannon's shore, 

Freedom's burning spirit rallies. 

Earth and Heaven unite in sign and omen 

Bodeful of the downfall of our foemen. 



Thurot commands the North, 

Meehal Dubh MacGiolla-Kierin I 
Louth sends her heroes forth, 

To hew down the foes of Erin ! 
Swords gleam in field and gorth* 
Meehal Dubh MacGiolla-Kierin! 
Up ! up ! my friend ! 
There's a glorious goal before us; 

Here will we blend 
Speech and soul in this grand chorus : 
" By the Heaven that gives us one more 

token, 
We will die, or see our shackles broken !" 



Charles leaves the Grampian hills, 
Meehal Dubh MacGiolla-Kierin ! 

Charles, whose appeal yet thrills, 

Like a clarion-blast, through Erin. 

Charles, be whose image fills 

Thy soul, too, MacGiolla-Kierin ! 
Ten thousand strong, 

His clans move in brilliant order, 
Sure that ere long 

He will march them o'er the Border. 



' This is an allusion to that well-known i 
aomenon of the "cloud armies." which is said to bare 1 
so common about this period in Scotland. 

* Oorth literally means Garden. 






POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



401 



While the dark-hair'd daughters of the 

Highlands 
Crown with wreaths the Monarch of three 

islands ! 

Fill, then, the ale-cup high, 

Meehal Dubh MacGiolla-Kierin ! 
Fill ! the bright hour is nigh 

That shall give her own to Erin ! 
Those who so sadly sigh, 

Even as you, MacGiolla-Kierin, 
Henceforth shall sing. 
Hark ! — O'er heathery hill and dell come 

Shouts for the King ! 
Welcome, our Deliverer ! Welcome ! 
Thousands this glad night, ere turning bed- 
ward, 
Will with us drink, "Victory to Charles 
Edward !" 



LAMENT FOR BANBA.' 

(from the irish.) 

Oh, my land ! Oh, my love ! 
What a woe, and how deep, 
Is thy death to my long mourning soul f 
God alone, God above, 
Can awake thee from sleep, 
Can release thee from bondage and dole ! 
Ala8, alas, and alas, 

For the once proud people of Banba I 

As a tree in its prime, 

Which the axe layeth low, 
Didst thou fall, oh unfortunate land ! 
Not by Time, nor thy crime, 
Came the shock and the blow. 
They were given by a false felon hand ! 
Alas, alas, and alas, 

For the once proud people of Banba ! 

Oh, my grief of all griefs 
Is to see how thy throne 
Is usurp'd, whilst thyself art in thrall ! 
Other lands have their chiefs, 
Have their kings, thou alone 
Art a wife, yet a widow withal ! 
Alas, alas, and alas, 

For the once proud people of Banba ! 



; of the most ancieut 1 



The high house of O'Neill 
Is gone down to the dust, 
The O'Brien is clanless and bann'd ; 
And the steel, the red steel, 
May no more be the trust 
Of the Faithful and Brave in the land ! 
Alas, alas, and alas, 

For the once proud people of Banba ! 

True, alas ! Wrong and Wrath 
Were of old all too rife. 
Deeds were done which no good man admires; 
And perchance Heaven hath 
Chasten'd us for the strife 
And the blood-shedding ways of our sires ! 
Alas, alas, and alas, 

For the once proud people of Banba 1 

But, no more ! This our doom, 
While our hearts yet are warr% 
Let us not over-weakly deplore ! 
For the hour soon may loom 
When the Lord's mighty hand 
Shall be raised for our rescue once more T 

And our grief shall be turn'd into joy 
For the still proud people of Banba ! 



ELLEN BAWN. 

(FROM THE IRISH.) 

Ellen Bawn, oh, Ellen Bawn, you darling r 
darling dear, you 

Sit awhile beside me here, I'll die unless Fro 
near you ! 

'Tis for you I'd swim the Suir and breast the 
Shannon's waters ; 

For, Ellen dear, you've not your peer in Gal- 
way's blooming daughters ! 



Had I Limerick's gems and gold at will to 

mete and measure, 
Were Loughrea's abundance mine, and all 

Portumna's treasure, 
These might lure me, might insure me many 

and many a new love, 
But oh ! no bribe could pay your tribe fo? 

one like you, my true leve I 






40J 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



Blessings be on Connaught ! that's the place 

for sport and raking ! 
Blessings, too, my love, on you, a-sleeping 

and a-waking ! 
I'd have met you, dearest Ellen, when the 

sun went under, 
But, woe ! the flooding Shannon broke across 

my path in thunder ! 



Ellen ! I'd give all the deer in Limerick's 
parks and arbors, ' 

Ay, and all the ships that rode last year in 
Munster's harbors, 

Could I blot from Time the hour I first be- 
came your lover, 

For, oh ! you've given my heart a wound it 
never can recover ! 



Would to God that in the sod my corpse to- 
night were lying, 

And the wild-birds wheeling o'er it, and the 
winds a-sighing, 

■Since your cruel mother and your kindred 
choose to sever 

Two hearts that Love would blend in one 
forever and forever. 



LOVE BALLAD. 

(FROM THE IRISH.) 

Lonely from my home I come, 

To cast myself upon your tomb, 
And to weep. 
Lonely from my lonesome home, 

My lonesome house of grief and gloom, 
While I keep 
Vigil often all night long, 

For your dear, dear sake, 
Praying many a prayer so wrong 

That my heart would break ! 

Gladly, oh my blighted flower, 
Sweet Apple of my bosom's Tree, 
Would I now 
Stretch me in your dark death-bower 
Beside your corpse, and lovingly 
Kiss your brow. 



But we'll meet ere many a day, 

Never more to part, 
For even now 1 feel the clay 

Gathering round my heart. 

In my soul doth darkness dwell, 

And through its dreary winding oaves 
Ever flows, 
Ever flows with moaning swell, 

One ebbless flood of many Waves, 
Which are Woes. 
Death, love, has me in his lures, 

But that grieves not me, 
So my ghost may meet with yours 

On yon moon-loved lea. 



When the neighbors near my cot 

Believe me sunk in slumber deep, 
I arise — 
For, oh ! 'tis a weary lot, 

This watching eye, and wooing sleep 
With hot eyes — 
I arise, and seek your grave, 

And pour forth my tears ; 
While the winds that nightly rave, 

Whistle in mine ears. 



Often turns my memory back 
To that dear evening in the dell, 
When we twain, 
Shelter'd by the sloe-bush black, 

Sat, laugh'd, and talk'd, while thick sleet 
fell, 

And cold rain. 
Thanks to God ! no guilty leaven 

Dash'd our childish mirth. 
You rejoice for this in heaven, 
I not less on earth ! 

Love ! the priests feel wroth with me, 

To find I shrine your image still 
In my breast. 
Since you are gone eternally, 

And your fair frame lies in the chill 
Grave at rest ; 
But true Love outlives the shroud, 

Knows nor check nor change, 
And beyond Time's world of Cloud 

Still must reign and range. 






POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



Well may now your kindred mourn 

The threats, the wiles, the cruel arts, 
They long tried 
On the child they left forlorn ! 

They broke the tenderest heart of hearts, 
And she died. 
Curse upon the love of show ! 

Curse on Pride and Greed ! 
They would wed you " high" — and woe ! 

Here behold their meed ! 



THE VISION OF CONOR O'SULLIVAN. 

(FROM THE IRISH.) 

Last night amid dreams without number,,. 
• I beheld a bright vision in slumber : 
A maiden with rose-red and lily-white fea- 
tures, 

Disrobed of all earthly cumber. 

Her hair o'er her shoulder was flowing, 
In clusters all golden and glowing, 
Luxuriant and thick as in meads are the 
grass-blades 
That the scythe of the mower is mowing. 

With hei brilliant eyes, glancing so keenly, 
Her lips smiling sweet and serenely, 

Her pearly-white teeth and her high-arched 
eyebrows, 

*" She look'd most commanding and queenly. 

Her long taper fingers might dally 
With the harp in some grove or green alley ; 
And her ivory neck and her beautiful bosom 
Were white as the snows of the valley. 

Bowing down now, before her so lowly, 
With words that ca'me trembling and 

slowly, 
I ask'd what her name was, and where I 

might worship 
At the shrine of a being so holy ! 

" This nation is thy land and my land," 

She answer' d me with a sad smile, and 

The sweetest of tones — " I, alas ! am the 

spouse of 

The long-banish'd chiefs of our island 1" 



" Ah ! dimm'd is that island's fair glory, 
And through sorrow her children grow 

hoary ; 
Yet, seat thee beside me, O Nurse of the 

Heroes, 
And tell me thy tragical story !" 

" The Druids and Sages unfold it — 
The Prophets and Saints have foretold it, 
That the Stuart would come o'er the sea 
with his legions, 
And that all Eire's tribes should behold it ! 

" Away, then, with sighing and mourning, 
The hearts in men's bosoms are burning 
To free this green land — oh! be sure you 
will soon see 
The days of her greatness returning ! 

" Up, heroes, ye valiant and peerless ! 
Up, raise the loud war-shout so fearless ! 
While bonfires shall blaze, and the bagpipe 
and trumpet 
Make joyous a land now so cheerless ! 

"For the troops of King Louis shall aid 

us; — 
The chains that now bind us 
Shall crumble to dust, and our bright swords 

shall slaughter 
The wretches whose wiles have betray'd 

us !" 



PATRICK CONDON'S VISION. 

(FROM THE IRISH.) 

[Patrick Condon, tbe author of this song, was a native of 
the barony of Imokilly, county of Cork, and resided about four 
miles from the town of Youghai. About thirty years ago he 
emigrated to North America, and located himself some dis- 
tance from Quebec. The Englishman, who has ever in the 
course of his travels, chanced to come into proximity with an 
Irish " hedge school," will be at no loss to conjecture the or- 
igin of the frequent allusions to heathen mythology in theBe 
songs. They are to be traced, we may say, exclusively to that 
intimate acquaintance with the classics which the Munster 
peasant never failed to acquire from the instructions of the 
road-side pedagogue. The Kerry rustic, it is known, speaks 
Latin like a citizen of old Rome, and has frequently, though 
ignorant of a syllable of English, conversed in the language of 
Cicero and Virgil with some of the most learned and intellec- 
tual of English touriBts. Alas I that the acnteneBB of in- 
tellect for which the Irish peasant is remarkable should not 
have afforded a bint to our rulers, amid their many and fruit- 
less attempts at what is called conciliation 1 Would it not b» 
• policy equally worthy of their judgment, and deserving ol 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



praise in itself, to establish schools for the Irish in which they 
might be taught, at least the elementary principles of educa- 
tion through the medium of their native tongue • This course, 
Jong advocated by the most enlightened or every clasp and 
ereed, has been lately brought forward in an able manner by 
Mr. Christopher Anderson.— Sec his Sketches 0/ Native Irish.] 

The evening was waning : long, long I stood 
pondering 
Nigh a green wood on my desolate lot. 
Hie setting sun's glory then set me a-won- 
dering, 
And the deep tone of the stream in the 
grot. 
The birds on the boughs were melodiously 
singing, too. 
Even though the night was advancing 
apace ; 
Voices of fox-hunters, — voices were ringing 
too, 
And deep-mouth'd hounds follow'd up the 
long chase. 

Nut-trees around me grew beauteous and 
flourishing — 
Of the ripe fruit I partook without fear — 
Sweet was their flavor, — sweet, healthful, and 
nourishing ; 
Honey I too found — the best of good cheer! 
When, lo ! I beheld a fair maiden draw near 
to me ; 
The noblest of maidens in figure and mind- 
One who hath been, and will ever be dear to 
me — 
Lovely and mild above all of her kind ! 

Long were her locks, hanging down in rich 
tresses all — 
Golden and plaited, luxuriant and curl'd ; 
Her eyes shone like stars of that Heaven 
which blesses all : 
Swan-white was her bosom, the pride of 
the world. 

Her marvellous face like the rose and the lily 

shone ; 

Pearl-like her teeth were as ever were seen ; 

In her calm beauty she proudly, yet stilly 

shone — 

Meek as a vestal, yet grand as a Queen. 

Long-time I gazed on her, keenly and si- 
lently — 



Who might she be, this young damsel 
sublime ? 
Had she been chased from a foreign land 
violently ? 
Had she come hither to wile away time ? 
Was she Calypso ? I question'd her pleas- 
antly — 
Ceres, or Hecate the bright undefiled ? 
Thetis, who sank the stout vessels inces- 
santly ? 
Bateia the tender, or Hebe the mild ? 

" None of all those whom you name," she 
replied to me : 
" One broken-hearted by strangers am I ; 
But the day draweth near when the rights- 
naw denied to me 
All shall flame forth like the stars in the 
sky. 
Yet twenty-five years and you'll witness my 
gloriousness : 
Doubt me not, friend, for in God is my 
trust ; 
And they who exult in their barren victori- 
ousness 
Suddenly, soon, shall go down to the dust !' v 



SIGHILE NI GARA. 
(from the Irish.) 

[The first peculiarity likely to strike the reader is the re- 
markable sameness pervading those Irish pieces which artrime 
a narrative form. The poet usually wanders forth of a sum- 
mer evening over moor and mountain, mournfully meditatiug 
on the wrongs and sufferings of his native land, until at 
length, sad and weary, he lies down to repose in some flowery 
vale, or on the slope of some green and lonely hill-side. He- 
Bleeps, and in a dream beholds a young female of more than 
mortal beaut/, who approaches and accosts hira. She is al- 
ways represented as appearing in naked loveliness. Her per 
son is described with a minuteness of detail bordering upon 
tcdiousness — her hands, for Instance, are 6aid to be snch as 
would execute the most complicated and delicate embroioery. 
The enraptured poet Inquires whether she be one of the hero- 
ines of ancient story— Semiraniis, Helen, or Medea— or one 
of the illustrious women of his own country — Deirdre. Blath- 
nald, or Cearnuit, or some Banshee, like Aoibhill, Cliona, or 
Aine, and the answer he receives is. that she is none of those 
eminent personages, but Eire, once a qneen, and now a slave 
— of old in the enjoyment of all honor and dignity, but to-day 
in thrall to the foe and the stranger. Yet wretched as is her 
condition, she does not despair, and encourages her afflicted 
child to hope, prophesying that speedy relief will reach him< 
from abroad. The song then concludes, though in some in 
stances the poet appends a few consolatory reflections of hi* 
own. by way of finale. 

The present song is one .if the class which we have de 
scribed, and Sig/iile M Ghailtiaradh (Ceiia O'Gara). in the laic, 
guagc of allegory, means Ireland.) 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



Alone as I wander'd in sad meditation, 
And ponder'd my sorrows and soul's 

tion, 
A beautiful vision — a maiden drew near me, 
An angel she seem'd sent from Heaven to 

cheer me. 
Let none dare to tell me I acted amiss 
Because on her lips I imprinted a kiss — 
Oh ! that was a moment of exquisite bliss ! 
For sweetness, for grace, and for brightness 

of feature, 
Earth holds not the match of this loveliest 

creature ! 

Her eyes, like twin stars, shone and sparkled 

with lustre ; 
Her tresses hung waving in many a cluster, 
And swept the long grass all around and be- 
neath her ; 
She moved like a being who trod upon ether, 
And seem'd to disda'in the dominions of 

space — 
Such beauty and majesty, glory and grace, 
So faultless a form, and so dazzling a face; 
And ringlets so shining, so many and golden, 
Were never beheld since the storied years 
olden. 

Alas, that this damsel, so noble and queenly, 
Who spake, and who look'd, and who moved 

so serenely, 
Should languish in woe, that her throne 

should have crumbled ; 
Her haughty oppressors abiding unhumbled. 
■Oh ! woe that she cannot with horsemen and 

swords, 
With fleets and with armies, with chieftains 

and lords, 
Chase forth from the isle the vile Sassenach 

hordes, 
Who too long in their hatred have trodden 

us under, 
And wasted green Eire with slaughter and 

plunder ! 

She hath studied God's Gospels, and Truth's 
divine pages — 

The tales of the Druids, and lays of old sages ; 

She hath quaff 'd the pure wave of the foun- 
tain Pierian, 

And is versed in the wars of the Trojan and 
Tyrian ; 



So gentle, so modest, so artless and mild, 
The wisest of women, yet meek as a child ; 
She pours forth her spirit in speech uudefiled ; 
But her bosom is pierced, and her soul hath 

been shaken, 
To see herself left so forlorn and forsaken ! 

Oh, maiden !" so spake I, " thou best and 
divinest, 
Thou, who as a sun in thy loveliness shinest, 
Who art thou and whence? — and what land 

dost thou dwell in ? 
Say, art thou fair Deirdre, or canst thou be 

Helen ?" 
And thus she made answer — " What ! dost 

thou not see 
The nurse of the Chieftains of Eire in me — 
The heroes of Banba, the valiant and free ? 
I was great in my time, ere the Gall 1 became 

stronger • 
Than the Gael, and my sceptre pass'd o'er to 

the Wronger !" 
Thereafter she told me, with bitter lamenting, 
A story of sorrow beyond all inventing — 
Her name was Fair Eire, the mother of true 

hearts, 
The daughter of Conn, and the spouse of the 

Stewarts. 
She had snffer'd all woes, had been tortured 

and flay'd, 
Had been trodden and spoil'd, been deceived 

and betray 'd ; 
But her champion, she hoped, would soon 

come to her aid, 
And the insolent Tyrant who now was her 

master 
Would then be o'erwhelm'd by defeat and 
disaster ! 

Oh, fear not, fair mourner ! — thy lord and 

thy lover, 
Prince Charles, with his armies, will cross 

the seas ovor. 
Once more, lo ! the Spirit of Liberty rallies 
Aloft on thy mountains, and calls ironi thy 

valleys. 
Thy children will rise and will take, one 

and all, 
Revenge on the murderous tribes of the GalL 



Gall, the stranger ; Gads, the native Irish. 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MAXGAN. 



And to thee shall return each reuown'd castle 

hall; 
And again thon shalt revel in plenty and 

treasure, 
And the wealth of the land shall be thine 

without measure. 



ST. PATRICK'S HYMN BEFORE TARAH. 

[The original Irish of this hymn was published by Dr. Petrie, 
In vol. xvili., " Transactions of the Royal Irish Academy." It 
Is In the Bearla Feine, the most ancient dialect of the Irish, the 
same in which the Brehon laws were written. It was printed 
from the "Liber Hymnoram," preserved in the Library of 
Trinity College, Dublin, a manuscript which, as Dr. Petrie 
proves by the authority of Usher and others, must be nearly 
1250 years old.] 

At Tarah to-dat, in this awful hour, 

I call on the Holy Trinity ! 
Glory to Him who reigneth in power, 
The God of the elements, Father, and Son 
And Paraclete Spirit, which Three are the 
One, 

The ever-existing Divinity ! 

At Taeah to-day I call on the Lord, 

On Christ, the Omnipotent Word, 

Who came to redeem from Death and Sin 

Our fallen race ; 

And I put and I place 
The virtue that lieth and liveth in 

His Incarnation lowly, 

His Baptism pure and holy, 
His life of toil, and tears, and affliction, 
His dolorous Death — his Crucifixion, 
His Burial, sacred and sad and lone, 

His Resurrection to life again, 
His glorious Ascension to Heaven's high 

Throne, 
And, lastly, his future dread 

And terrible coming to judge all men — 
Both the Living and Dead 

At Takah to-dat I put and I place 
The virtue that dwells in the Seraphim's 
love, 
And the virtue and grace 
That are in the obedience 
And unshaken allegiance 
Of all the Archangels and angels above, 
And in the hope of the Resurrection 



To everlasting reward and election, 
And in the prayers of the Fathers of old, 
And in the truths the Prophets foretold, 
And in the Apostles' manifold preachings, 
And in the Confessors' faith and teachings, 
And in the purity ever dwelling 

Within the immaculate Virgin's breast, 
And in the actions bright and excelling 

Of all good men, the just and the blest. . . 

At Tarah to-dat, in this fateful hour, 

I place all Heaven with its power, 

And the sun with its brightness, 

And the snow with its whiteness, 

And the fire with all the strength it hath, 

And lightning with its rapid wrath, 

And the winds with their swiftness along 

their path, 
And the sea with its deepness, 
And the rocks with their steepness, 
And the earth with its starkness,' 
All these I place, 
. By God's almighty help and grace, 
Between myself and the Powers of Darkness 

At Tarah to-dat 
May God be my stay ! 
May the strength of God now nerve rae t 
May the power of God preserve me ! 
May God the Almighty be near me ! 
May God the Almighty espy me ! 
May God the Almighty hear me ! 

May God give me eloquent speech ! 
May the arm of God protect rae ! 
May the wisdom of God direct me ! 

May God give me power to teach and to 
preach ! 

May the shield of God defend me ! 
May the host of God attend me, 
And ward me, 
And guard me, 
Against the wiles of demons and devils, 
Against the temptations of vices and evils, 
Against the bad passions and wrathful will 

Of the reckless mind and the wicked heart, 
Against every man who designs me ill, 
Whether leagued with others or plotting 
apart ! 



.! 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



In this hour of iioues, 
I place all those powers 
Between myself and every .foe, 
Who threaten my body and soul 
With danger or dole, 
To protect me against the^evils that flow 
From lying soothsayers' incantations, 
From the gloomy laws of the Gentile nations, 
From Heresy's hateful innovations, 
From Idolatry's rites and invocations, 
Be those my defenders, 
My guards against every ban — 
And spell of smiths, and Druids, and women; 
In fine, against every knowledge that renders 
The light Heaven sends us dim in 
The spirit and soul of Man ! 

May Christ, I peat, 
Protect me to-day 
Against poison and fire, 
Against drowning and wounding, 
That so, in His grace abounding, 
I may earn the Preacher's hire ! 

Christ, as a light, 
Illumine and suide me ! 



Christ, as a shield, o'ershadow and cover me ' 
Christ be under me ! Christ be over me ! 

Christ be beside me 

On left hand and right ! 
Christ be before me, behind me, about mt , 
Christ this day be within and without me ! 

Christ, the lowly and meek, 

Christ, the All-Powerful, be 
In the heart of each to whom I speak, 
In the mouth of each who speaks to me I 
In all who draw near me, 
Or see me or hear me ! 



, At Tarah to-day, in this awful hour, 

I call on the Holy Trinity ! 
Glory to Him who reigneth in power, 
The God of the Elements, Father, and Son, 
And Paraclete Spirit, which Three are the One 

The ever-existing Divinity ! 

Salvation dwells with the Lord, 
With Christ, the Omnipotent Word. 
From generation to generation 
| Grant us, O Lord, thy grace and salvation ! 



APOCRYPHA. 



THE KARAMANIAN EXILE. 
(from the ottoman.) 



I see thee ever in my 

Karaman ! 
Thy hundred hills, thy thousand streams, 

Karaman ! O Karaman ! 
As when thy gold-bright morning gleams, 
As when the deepening sunset seams, 
With lines of light thy hills and streams, 

Karaman ! 
So thou loomest on my dreams, 

Karaman ! O Karaman ! 






The hot, bright plains, the sun, the skies, 

Karaman ! 
Seem death-black marble to mine eyes, 

Karaman ! O Karaman ! 
I turn from summer's blooms and dyes ; 
Yet in my dreams thou dost arise 
In welcome glory to my eyes, 

Karaman ! 
In thee my life of life yet lies, 

Karaman ! 
Thou still art holy in mine eyes, 

Karaman ! O Karaman . 

; Ere my fighting years were come, 
Karaman ! 







POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



1 



Troops were few in Erzerome, 

Ear am an ! O Kararaan ! 
Their fiercest came from Erzerome, 
They came from Ukhbar's palace dome, 
They dragg'd me forth from thee, my home, 

Karaman ! 
Thee, my own, my mountain home, 

Karaman ! 
In life and death, my spirit's home, 

Karaman ! O Karaman ! 

Oh, none of all my sisters ten, 

Karaman ! 
Loved like me my fellow-men, 

Karaman ! O Karaman ! 
I was mild as milk till then, 
I was soft as silk till then ; 
Now my breast is as a den, 

Karaman ! 
Foul with blood and bones of men, 

Karaman ! 
With blood and bones of slaughter'd men, 

Karaman ! O Karaman ! 

My boyhood's feelings newly born, 

Karaman ! 
Wither'd like young flowers uptorn, 

Karaman ! O Karaman ! 
And in their stead sprang weed and thorn ; 
What once I loved now moves my scorn ; 
My burning eyes are dried to horn, 

Karaman ! 
I hate the blessed light of morn 

Karaman ! 
It maddens me, the face of morn, 

Karaman ! O Karaman \ 

The Spahi wears a tyrant's chains, 

Karaman ! 
But bondage worse than this remains, 

Karaman ! O Karaman ! 
His heart is black with million stains : 
Thereon, as on Kaf 's blasted plains, 
Shall never more fall dews and rains, 

Karaman ! 
Save poison-dews and bloody rains, 

Karaman ! 
Hell's poison-dews and bloody rains, 

Karaman ! O Karaman ! 

But life at worst must end ere long, 
Karaman ! 



Azreel 1 avengeth every wrong, 

Karaman ! O Karaman ! 
Of late my thoughts rove more among 
Thy fields ; o'ershadowing fancies throng 
My mind, and texts of bodeful song, 

Karaman ! 
Azreel is terrible and strong, 

Karaman ! 
His lightning sword smites all ere long, 

Karaman ! O Karaman ! 
There's care to-night in Ukhbar's halls, 

Karaman ! 
There's hope too, for his trodden thralls, 

Karaman ! O Karaman ! 
What lights flash red along yon walls ? 
Hark ! hark ! — the muster-trumpet calls I— 
I see the sheen of spears and shawls, 

Karaman ! 
The foe ! the foe ! — they scale the walls, 

Karaman ! 
To-night Murad or TJkhbar falls, 

Karaman ! O Karaman ! 



THE WAIL AND WARNING OF THE THREE 
KHALENDEERS. 

(FROM THE OTTOMAN:) 

La' laha, il Allah ? 
Here we meet, we three, at length, 

Amrah, Osman, Perizad : 
Shorn of all our grace and strength, 

Poor, and old, and very sad ! 
We have lived, but live no more ; 

Life has lost its gloss for us, 
Since the days we spent of yore, 

Boating down the Bosphorus ! 
La' laha, il Allah ! 

The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! 

Old Time brought home no loss for us. 
We felt full of health and heart 

Upon the foamy Bosphorus I 

La' laha, il Allah ! 
Days indeed ! A shepherd's tent 

Served us then for house and fold ; 
All to whom we gave or lent, 



1 The augel of death. 



1 God alone is all-merciful ' 






POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAX. 



409 



Paid us back a thousand fold. 
Troublous years by myriads wail'd, 

Rarely had a cross for us, 
Never when we gayly sail'd, 

Singing down the Bosphorus. 
La' laha, il Allah ! 

The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! 

There never came a cross for us, 
While we daily, gayly sail'd 

Adown the meadowy Bosphorus. 

La' laha, il Allah ! 
Blithe as birds we flew along, 

Laugh'd and quaff 'd and stared about ; 
Wine and roses, mirth and song, 

Were what most we cared about. 
Fame we left for quacks to seek, 

Gold was dust and dross for us, 
While we lived from week to week, 

Boating down the Bosphorus. 
La' laha, il Allah ! 

The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! 

And gold was dust and dross for us, 
While we lived from week to week, 

Aborting down the Bosphorus. 

La' laha, il Allah ! 
Friends we were, and would have shared 

Purses, had we twenty full. 
If we spent, or if we spared, 

Still our funds were plentiful. 
Save the hours we pass'd apart 

Time brought home no loss for us ; 
We felt full of hope and heart 

While we clove the Bosphorus. 
La' laha, il Allah i 

The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! 

For life has lost its gloss for us, 
Since the days we spent of yore 

Upon the pleasant Bosphorus ! 

La' laha, il Allah ! 
Ah ! for youth's delirious hours, 

Man pays well in after days, 
When quench'd hopes and palsied powers 

Mock his love-and-laughter days. 
Thorns and thistles on our path, 

Took the place of moss for us, 
Till false fortune's tempest wrath 

Drove us from the Bosphorus. 
La' laha, il Allah ! 

The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! 



When thorns took place of moss for us, 
Gone was all ! Our hearts were graves 
Deep, deeper than the Bosphorus ! 

La' laha, il Allah ! 
Gone is all ! .In one abyss 

Lie Health, Youth, and Merriment I 
All we've learn'd amounts to this — 

Life's a sad experiment. 
What it is we trebly feel 

Pondering what it was for u.s, 
When our shallop's bounding keel 

Clove the joyous Bosphorus. 
La' laha, il Allah ! 

The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! 

We wail for what life was for us, 
When our shallop's bounding keel 

Clove the joyous Bosphorus! 

THE WARNING. 

La' laha, il Allah ! 
Pleasure' tempts, yet man has none . 

Save himself t' accuse, if her 
Temptings prove, when all is done, 

Lures hung out by Lucifer. 
Guard your fire in youth, O Friends ! 

Manhood's is but Phosphorus, 
And bad luck attends and ends 

Boatings down the Bosphorus ! 
La' laha, il Allah ! 

The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! 

Youth's fire soon wanes to PhosphoruB, 
And slight luck or grace attends 

Your boaters down the Bosphorus ! 



THE TIME OP THE BARMECIDES. 

(FKOM TELE ARABIC.) 

My eyes are film'd, my beard is gray, 

I am bow'd with the weight of years ; 
I would I were stretch'd in my bed of clay, 

With my long-lost youth's compeers ! 
For back to the Past, though the thought 
brings woe, 

My memory ever glides — 
To the old, old time, long, long ago, 

The time of the Barmecides ! 
To the old, old time, long, long ago, 

The time of the Barmecides. 



klO 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



Hen Youth was mine, ami a fierce wild will, 

And an iron arm in war, 
And a fleet foot high upon Ishkar's hill, 

When the watch-lights glimmer'd afar, 
And a barb as fiery as any I know ♦ 

That Khoord or Beddaween rides, 
Ere my friends lay low — long, long ago, 

In the time of the Barmecides. 
Ere my friends lay low — long, long ago, 

In the time of the Barmecides. 

One golden goblet illumed my board, 

One silver dish was there ; 
At hand my tried Karamanian sword 

Lay always bright and bare, 
For those were the days when the angry blow 

Supplanted the word that chides — ' 
When hearts could glow — long, long ago, 

In the time of the Barmecides; 
When hearts could glow — long, long ago, 

In the time of the Barmecides. 

Through city and desert my mates and I 

Were free to rove and roam, 
Our diaper'd canopy the deep of the sky, 

Or the roof of the palace dome — 
Oh ! ours Was that vivid life to and fro 

Which only sloth derides — 
Men spent Life so, long, long ago, 

In the time of the Barmecides, 
Men spent Life so, long, long ago, 

In the time of the Barmecides. 

I see rich Bagdad once again, 

With its turrets of Moorish mould, 
And the Khalif 's twice five hundred men 

Whose binishes flamed with gold ; 
I call up many a gorgeous show 

Which the pall of Oblivion hides — 
All pass'd like snow, long, long ago, 

With the time of the Barmecides ; 
All pass'd like snow, long, long ago, 

With the time of the Barmecides ! 

But mine eye is dim, and my beard is gray, 
And I bend with the weight of years — 

May I soon go down to the House of Clay 
Where slumber my Youth's compeers ! 

For with them and the Past, though the 
thought wakes woe, 
My memory ever abides ; 



And I mourn for the Times gone long ago, 
For the Times of the Barmecides! 

I mourn for the Times gone long ago, 
For the Times of the Barmecides ! 



THE MARINER'S BRIDE. 

(PROM THE 8PANI8H.) 

Look, mother ! the mariner's rowing 

His galley adown the tide ; 
I'll go where the mariner's going, 

And be the mariner's bride ! 

I saw him one day through the wicket, 
I open'd the gate and we met — 
As a bird in the fowler's net, 

Was I caught in my own green thicket 

O mother, my tears are flowing, 
I've lost my maidenly pride — 

I'll go if the mariner's going, 
And be the mariner's bride ! 

This Love the tyrant evinces, 
Alas ! an omnipotent might, 
He darkens the mind like Night. 

He treads on the necks of Princes ! 

O mother, my bosom is glowing, 
I'll go whatever betide, 

I'll go where the mariner's going, 
And be the mariner's bride ! 

Yes, mother ! the spoiler has reft me 

Of reason and self-control; 

Gone, gone is my wretched soul, 
And only my body is left me ! 
The winds, O mother, are blowing, 

The ocean is bright and wide ; 
I'll go where the mariner's going, 

And be the mariner's bride. 



TO THE 1NGLEEZEE KHAFIR, CALLING 
HIMSELF DJAUN BOOL DJENKINZUK. 

(FROM THE PERSIAN.) 

Thus writeth Meer Djafrit — 

I hate thee, Djaun Bool, 
Worse than Marid or Afrit, 

Or corpse-eating GhooL 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



I hate thee like Sin, 

For thy mop-head of bair, 
Thy snub nose and bald chin, 

And thy turkeycock aii. 
Thou vile Ferindjee ! 

That thou thus shouldst disturb an 
Old Moslim like me, 

With my Khizailbash turban ! 
Old fogy like me, 

With my Khizzilbash turban ! 

I spit on thy clothing, 
That garb for baboons ! 



I eye with deep loathing 

Thy tight pantaloons ! 
I curse the cravat 

That encircles thy throat, 
And thy cooking-pot hat, 

And thy swallow-tail'd coat f 
Go, hide thy thick sconce 

In some hovel suburban ; 
Or else don at once 

The red Moosleman turban. 
Thou dog, don at once 

The grand Khizzilbash turban r 



MISCELLANEOUS, 






SOUL AND COUNTRY. 

Aeise ! my slumbering soul, arise ! 
And learn what yet remains for thee 
To dree or do ! 
The signs are flaming in the skies ; 
A struggling world would yet be free, 
And live anew. 
The earthquake hath not yet been born, 
That soon shall rock the lands around, 
Beneath their base. 
Immortal freedom's thunder horn, 
As yet, yields but a doleful sound 
To Europe's race. 



Look round, my soul, and see and say 
If those about thee understand 
Their mission here ; 
The will to smite — the power to slay — 
Abound in every heart — and hand 
Afar, anear. 
But, God ! must yet the conqueror's sword 
Pierce mind, as heart, in this proud year ? 
Oh, dream it not ! 
It sounds a false, blaspheming word, 



Begot and born of moral fear- - 
And ill-begot ! 

To leave the world a name is nought 9 
To leave a name for glorious deeds 
And works of love — 
A name to waken lightning thought, 
And fire the soul of him who reads, 
This tells above. 
Napoleon sinks to-day before 

The ungilded shrine, the single soul 

Of Washington ; 

Truth's name, alone, shall man adore, 

Long as the waves of time shall roll 

Henceforward on ! 

My countrymen ! my words are weak, 
My health is gone, my soul is dark, 
My heart is chill — 
Yet would I fain and fondly seek 
To see you borne in freedom's bark 
O'er ocean still. 
Beseech your God, and bide your hour- 
He cannot, will not, long be dumb ; 
Even now his tread 
Is heard o'er earth with coming power ; 
And coming, trust me, it will come, 
Else were he dead ! 






POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



SIBERIA. 

In Siberia's wastes 

The Ice-wind's breath 
Woundeth like the toothed steel. 
Lost Siberia doth reveal 

Only blight and death. 

Blight and death alone. 

No Summer shines. 
Night is interblent with Day. 
In Siberia's wastes alway 

The blood blackens, the heart pines. 

In Siberia's wastes 

No tears are shed, 
For they freeze within the brain. 
Nought is felt but dullest pain, 

Pain acute, yet dead ; 

Pain as in a dream, 

When years go by 
Funeral-paced, yet fugitive, 
When man lives, and doth not live, 

Doth not live — nor die. 

In Siberia's wastes 

Are sands and rocks. 
Nothing blooms of green or soft, 
But the snow-peaks rise aloft 

And the gaunt ice-blocks. 

And the exile there 

Is one with those ; 
They are part, and he is part, 
For the sands are in his heart, 

And the killing snows. 

Therefore, in those wastes 

None curse the Czar. 
Each man's tongue is cloven by 
The North Blast, who heweth nigh 

With sharp scymitar. 

And such doom each drees, 

Till, hunger-gnawn, 
And cold-slain, he at length sinks there. 
Yet scarce inore a corpse than ere 

His last breath was drawn. 



A VISION OF CONNAUGHT IN THE THIR- 
TEENTH CENTURY. 



I walk'd entranced 

Through a land of Morn ; 
The sun, with wondrous excess of light, 
Shone down and glanced 
Over seas of corn 
And lustrous gardens aleft and right. 
Even in the clime 
Of resplendent Spain, 
Beams no such sun upon such a land ; 
But it was the time, 
'Twas in the reign, 
Of Cahal M6r of the Wine-red Hand 

Anon stood nigh 
By my side a man 
Of princely aspect and port sublime. 
Him queried I, 

" Oh, my Lord and Khan,' 
What clime is this, and what golden time V* 
When he — " The clime 
Is a clime to praise, 
The clime is Erin's, the green and bland ; 
And it is the time, 
These be the days, 
Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand !" 

Then saw I thrones, 
And circling fires, 
And a Dome rose near me, as by a spell, 
Whence flow'd the tones 
Of silver lyres, 
And many voices in wreathed swell ; 
And their thrilling chime 
Fell on mine ears 
As the heavenly hymn of an angel-band — 
"It is now the time, 
These be the years, 
Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand !" 

I sought the hall, 

And, behold ! . . . a change 
From light to darkness, from joy to woe ! 
King, nobles, all, 

Look'd aghast and strange ; 



"Cfeonn, the Gaelic title for a chiet 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



The minstrel-group sate in dumbest show! 
Had some great crime 

"Wrought this dread amaze, 
This terror ? None seem'd to understand ! 
'Twas then the time, 
We were in the days, 
Of Cahal Morof the Wine-red Hand. 

I again walk'd forth ; 
.But lo ! the sky 
Show'd fleckt with blood, and an alien sun 
Glared from the north, 
And there stood on high, 
Amid his shorn beams, a skeleton ! 
It was by the stream 
Of the castled Maine, 
One Autumn eve, in the Teuton's land,. 
That I dream'd this dream 
Of the time and reign 
Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand ! 



AN INVITATION. 

Friends to Freedom ! is't not time 

That your course were shaped at length ? 
Wherefore stand ye loitering here ? 
Seek some healthier, holier clime, 

Where your souls may grow in strength, 
And -whence Love hath exiled Fear ! 

Europe, — Southron, Saxon, Celt, — 
Sits alone, in tatter'd robe. 
In our days she burns with aone 
Of the lightning-life she felt, 

When Rome shook the troubled globe, 
Twenty centuries agone. 

Deutschland sleeps : her star hath waned. 
France, the Thundress whilome, now 
Singeth small, with bated breath. 
Spain is bleeding, Poland chain'd ; 
Italy can but groan and vow. 
England lieth sick to death. 1 

Cross with me the Atlantic's foam, 
And your genuine goal is won. 



'"England leidet von einer todtlichen Krankheit, ohne 
floff nung wie ohne Heilnng." England labors under a deadly 
sickness, without hope and without remedy.— NrEBCHB. 



Purely Freedom's breezes blow, 
Merrily Freedom's children roam, 
By the dcedal Amazon, 
And the glorious Ohio ! 

Thither take not gems and gold. 

Nought from Europe's robber-hoards 
Must profane the Western Zones. 
Thither take ye spirits bold, 

Thither take ye ploughs and swords, 
And your fathers' buried bones ! 

Come ! — if Liberty's true fires 
Burn within your bosoms, come ! 
If ye would that in your graves 
Your free sons should bless their sires, 
Make the Far Green West your home, 
Cross with me the Atlantic's waves ! 



THE WARNING VOICE* 

ie Bemble que nous Bommes a la veille d'une granc 
humainc. Les forces eont la ; mais j e n'y vois pas < 
"— Balzac: Livre Myrtigve. 

Ye Faithful !— ye Noble ! 

A day is at hand 
Of trial and trouble, 

And woe in the land ! 
O'er a once greenest path, 

Now blasted and sterile, 
Its dusk shadows loom — 
It cometh with Wrath, 

With Conflict and Peril, 
With Judgment and Doom ! 

False bands shall be broken, 
Dead systems shall crumble, 
And the Haughty shall hear 
Truths yet never spoken, 

Though smouldering like flam 
Through many a lost year 
In the hearts of the Humble ; 
For, Hepe will expire 
As the Terror draws nigher, 

And, with it, the Shame 
Which so long overawed 
Men's minds by its might — 



■Written in the jcar 1847, when the British Famine l 
wasting Ireland, and when the Irish Confederation ■ 
formed. 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



And the Powers abroad 
Will be Panic and Blight, 

And phrenetic Sorrow — 
Black Pest all the night, 

Aod Death on the morrow ! 

Now, therefore, ye True, 
<*ird your loins up anew ! 
By the good you have wrought! 
By all you have thought, 

And suffer'd, and done ! 

By your souls ! I implore you, 
Be leal to your mission — 

Remembering that one 

Of the two paths before you 
Slopes down to Perdition ! 
To you have been given, 

Not granaries and gold, 
But the Love that lives long, 

And waxes not cold ; 
And the Zeal that hath striven 

Against Error and Wrong, 
And in fragments hath riven 

The chains of the Strong ! 
Bide now, by your sternest 
Conceptions of earnest 
Endurance for others, 
Your weaker-soul'd brothers ! 
Your true faith and worth 

Will be History soon, 
And their stature stand forth 

In the unsparing Noon ! 

You have dream'd of an era 
Of Knowledge, and Truth, 
And Peace — the true glory 1 
Was this a chimera ? 

Not so! — but the childhood and 
youth 
Of our days will grow hoary, 
Before such a marvel shall burst on their 
eight ! 
On you its beams glow not — 
For you its flowers blow not! 
You cannot rejoice in its light, 

But in darkness and suffering instead, 
You go down to the place of the Dead ! 
To this generation 
The sore tribulation, 



The stormy commotion, 

And foam of the Popular Ocean, 

The struggle of class against class ; 
The Dearth and the Sadness, 

The Sword and the War-vest ; 
To the next, the Repose and the Glad 
ness, 
" The §ea of clear glass," 
And the rich Golden Harvest ! 

Know, then, your true lot, 
Ye Faithful, though few! 
Understand your position, 
Remember your mission, 
And vacillate not, 

Whatsoever ensue ! 
Alter not ! Falter not ! 

Palter not now with your own living 

souls, 
When each moment that rolls 
May see Death lay his hand 
On some new victim's brow ! 
Oh ! let not your vow 

Have been written in sand ! 
Leave cold calculations 
Of Danger and Plague, 

To the slaves and the traitors 
Who cannot dissemble 

The dastard sensations 
That now make them tremble 
With phantasies vague ! — 
The men without ruth — 
The hypocrite haters 
Of Goodness and Truth, 
Who at heart curse the race 

Of the sun through the skies ; 
And would look in God's face 

With a lie in their eyes ! 
To the last do your duty, 

Still mindful of this — 
That Virtue is Beauty, 
And Wisdom, and Bliss ; 
So, howe'er, as frail men, you have err'd ou 

Your way along Life's thronged road, 
Shall your consciences prove a sure guerdon 
And tower of defence, 
Until Destiny summon you hence 
To the Better Abode ! , 



POEMS BY JAMES CLAltENCE MANGAN. 



THE LOVELY LAND. 
(On a Landscape, painted by m******.) 

Glorious birth of Mind and Color, 
Gazing on thy radiant face, 
The most lorn of Adam's race 

Might forget all dolor ! 

What divinest light is beaming 
Over mountain, mead, and grove ! 
That blue noontide sky above, 

Seems asleep and dreaming. 

Rich Italia's wild-birds warble 
In the foliage of those trees. 
I can trace thee, Veronese, 

In these rocks of marble ! 

Yet no ! Mark I not where quiver 
The sun's rays on yonder stream ? 
Only a Poussin could dream 

Such a sun and river ! 

What bold imaging ! Stony valley, 
A n d fair bower of eglantine ! 
Here I see the black ravine, 

There the lilied alley ! 

This is some rare clime so olden, 
Peopled, not by men, but fays ; 
Some lone land of genii days, 

Storyful and golden ! 

Oh for magic power to wander 

One bright year through such a land 
Might I even one hour stand 

On the blest hills yonder ! 

But — what spy I ? . . .0, by noonlight ! 
'Tis the same ! — the pillar-tower 
I have oft pass'd thrice an hour, 

Twilight, sunlight, moonlight ! 



No ! no land doth rank above thee 
Or for loveliness or worth ! 
So shall I, from this day forth, 

Ever sing and love thee ! 



me, my own, my sire-land, 
Not to know thy soil and skies 1 
Shame, that through Machse's eyes 
I first see thee, Ireland ! 



THE SAW-MILL. 

My path lay toward the Mourne agen, 
But I stopp'd to rest by the hill-side 

That glanced adown o'er the sunken glen, 
Which the Saw- and Water-mills hide, 

Which now, as then, 
The Saw- and Water-mills hide. 

And there, as I lay reclined on the hill, 
Like a man made by sudden qualm ill, 

I heard the water in the Water-mill, 
And I saw the saw in the Saw-mill ! 

As I thus lay still, 
I saw the saw in the Saw-mill ! 

The saw, the breeze, and the humming bees, 
Lull'd me into a dreamy reverie, 

Till the objects round me, hills, mills, trees, 
Seem'd grown alive all and every, 

By slow degrees 
Took life as it were, all and every! 

Anon the sound of the waters grew 

To a Mourne-ful ditty, 
And the song of the tree that the saw 
saw'd through, 
Disturbed my spirit with pity, 

. Began to subdue 
My spirit with tenderest pity ! 

" Oh, wanderer I the hour that brings the* 
back 
1$ of all meet hours the meetest. 
Thou now, in sooth, art on the Track, 
Art nigher to Home than thou weetest; 
Thou hast thought Time slack, 
But his flight has been of the fleetest ! 

"For thee it is that I dree such pain 

As, when wounded, even a plank will : 
My bosom is pierced, is rent in twair:, 



I 



POEMS BY JAMES CLAKENCE MANGAN. 



That thine may ever bide tranquil, 

May ever remain 
Henceforward untroubled and tranquil. 

"In a few days more, most Lonely One! 

Shall I. as a narrow ark, veil 
Thine eyes from the glare of the world and 
sun 
'Mong the urns in yonder dark vale, 

In the cold and dun 
Recesses of yonder dark vale ! 

"For this grieve not! Thou kno west what 
thanks 
The Weary-soul'd and Meek owe 
To Death !" — I awoke, and heard four planks 
Fall down with a saddening echo. 

I heard four planks 
Fall down with a hollow echo. 



CEAN-SALLA. 

The last words op Red Hugh O'Donnell on his 
departure prom ireland por spain. 

["After this defeat at Cean-SaUa (Ktnsale), it was remarked 
that the Irish became a totally changed people, for they now 
exchanged their valour for timidity, their energy and v'gonr for 
Indolence, and their hopes for bitter despondency."— Annalt 
Iff the Four Masters, a. b. 1602.] 

Weep not the brave Dead ! 
Weep rather the Living — 

On them lies the curse 

Of a Doom unforgiving ! 

Each dark hour that rolls, 

Shall the memories they mine, 
Like molten hot lead, 
Burn into their souls 

A remorse long and sore! 

They have help'd to enthral a 
Great land evermore, 

They who fled from Cean-SaUa ! 

Alas, for thee, slayer 

Of the kings of the Norsemen ! 
Thou land of sharp swords, 
And strong kerns and swift horsemen I 
Land ringing with song! 

Land, whose abbots and lords, 



Whose Heroic and Fair, 
Through centuries long, 

Made each palace of thine 
A new western Walhalla — 

Thus to die without sign 
On the field of Cean-Salla ; 

My ship cleaves the wave — 
I depart for Iberia — 

But, oh ! with what grief, 
With how heavy and dreary a 

Sensation of ill ! 
I could welcome a grave: 

My career has been brief, 
But I bow to God's will ! 
Not if now all forlorn, 

In my green years, I fall, a 
Lone exile, I mourn — 

But I mourn for Cean-Salla ! 



IRISH NATIONAL HYMN. 

O Ireland ! Ancient Ireland ! 
Ancient ! yet forever young ! 
Thou our mother, home, and sire-land- 
Thou at length hast found a tongue 
Proudly thou, at length, 
Resistest in triumphant strength. 
Thy flag of freedom floats unfurl'd ! 
And as that mighty God existeth, 
Who giveth victory when and where lie 
listeth, 
Thou yet shalt wake and shake the nationf 
of the world. 



For this dull world still slumbers, 
Weetless of its wants or loves, 
Though, like Galileo, numbers 
Cry aloud, "It moves! it moves!" 
In a midnight dream, 
Drifts it down Time's wreckful stream. 
All march, but few descry the goal. 
O Ireland ! be it thy high duty 
To teach the world the might of Mor»l 
Beauty, 
And stamp God's image truly on the strag- 
gling soul. 






POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



Strong in thy self-reliance, 

Not in idle threat or boast, 
Hast thou hurl'd thy fierce defiance 
At the haughty Saxon host — 
Thou hast claim'd, in sight 
Of high Heaven, thy long-lost right. 
Upon thy hills — along thy plains — 
In the green bosom of thy valleys, 
The new-born soul of holy freedom rallies, 
And calls on thee to trample down in dust 
thy chains ! 

Deep, saith the Eastern story, 

Burns in Iran's mines a gem, 

For its dazzling hues and glory 

Worth a Sultan's diadem. 

But from human eyes 

Hidden there it ever lies ! 

The aye-travailing Gnomes alone, 

Who toil to form the mountain's treasure 
May gaze and gloat with pleasure without 
measure, 
Upon the lustrous beauty of that wonder- 
stone. 

So is it with a nation 

Which ivould win for its rich dower 
That bright pearl, Self-Liberation — 
It must labor hour by hour. 
Strangers, who travail 
To lay bare the gem, shall fail ; 
Within itself, must grow, must glow — 
Within the depths of its own bosom 
Must flower in living might, must broadly 



The hopes that shall be born ere Freedom's 
Tree can blow. 



Go on, then, all-rejoiceful ! 

March on thy career unbow'd ! 
Ibbland ! let thy noble, voiceful , 
Spirit cry to God aloud ! 
Man will bid thee speed — 
God will aid thee in thy need — 
The Time, the hour, the power are near — 
Be sure thou soon shalt form the vanguard 
Of that illustrious band, whom Heaven 
and Man guard ■ 
And these words come h^in one whom some 
have calVd a Seer. 



BROKEN-HEARTED LAYS. 



Weep for one blank, one desert epoch in 
The history of the heart ; it is the time 
When all which dazzled us no more can win ; 
When all that beam'd of starlike and 
sublime 
Wanes, and we stand lone mourners o'er the 

burial 
Of perish'd pleasure, and a pall funereal, 
Stretching afar across the hueless heaven, 
Curtains the kingly glory of the sun, 
And robes the melancholy earth in one 
Wide gloom; when friends fox whom we 

could have striven 
With pain, and peril, and the sword, and 
given 
Myriads of lives, had such been merged 
in ours, 
Requite us with falseheartedness and 
wrong ; 
When sorrows haunt our path like evil 
powers, 
Sweeping and countless as the legion 
throng. 

Then, when the upbroken dreams of boy- 
hood's span, 
And when the inanity of all things human, 
And when the dark ingratitude of man, 

And when the hollower perfidy of woman, 
Come down like night upon the feelings, 
turning 
This rich, bright world, so redolent of 
bloom, 
Into a lazar-house of tears and mourning — 
Into the semblance of a living tomb ! 

When, yielding to the might she cannot 
master, 
The soul forsakes her palace halls of youth, 
And (touch'd by the Ithuriel wand of 
truth, 
Which oft in one brief hour works wonders 
vaster 
Than those of Egypt's old magician host), 
Sees at a single glance that all is lost ! 
And brooding in her cold and desolate lair 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



Over the phantom-wrecks of things that 
were, 
And asking destiny if nought remain ? 
Is answer'd — bitterness and lifelong pain, 
Remembrance, and reflection, and despair, 
And torturing thoughts that will not be for- 
bidden, 
And agonies that cannot all be hidden ! 

Oh ! in an hour like this, when thousands fix, 
In headlong desperation, on self-slaughter, 
Sit down, you droning, groaning bore ! and 
mix 
A glorious beaker of red rum-and- water ! 
And finally give Care his flooring blow, 
By one large roar of laughter, or guffaw, 
As in the Freischutz chorus, " Haw ! haw 1 
haw !" 
I! affaire estfaite — you've bamm'd and both- 
er'd woe. 



THE ONE MYSTERY. 

BALLAD. 

Tis idle ! we exhaust and squander 

The glittering mine of thought in vain ; 
All-baffled reason cannot wander 

Beyond her chain. 
The flood of life runs dark — dark clonds 

Make lampless night around its shore : 
The dead, where are they ? In their 
shrouds — 

Man knows no more. 

Evoke the ancient and the past, 

Will one illumining star arise ? 
Or must the film, from first to last, 

O'erspread thine eyes ? 
When life, love, glory, beauty, wither, 

Will wisdom's page or science' chart 
Map out for thee the region whither 

Their shades depart ? 

Supposest thou the wondrous powers, 

To high imagination given, 
Pale types of what shall yet be ours, 

When earth is heaven? 



When this decaying shell is cold, 
Oh ! sayest thou the soul shall climb 

That magic mount she trod of old. 
Ere childhood's time ? 

And shall the sacred pulse that thrill'd, 

Thrill once again to glory's name ? 
And shall the conquering love that fill'd 

All earth with flame, 
Reborn, revived, renew'd, immortal, 

Resume his reign in prouder might, 
A sun beyond the ebon portal 

Of death and night ? 

No more, no more — with aching brow, 

And restless heart, and burning brain, 
We ask the When, the Where, the How, 

And ask in vain. 
And all philosophy, all faith, 

All earthly — all celestial lore, 
Have but one voice, which only saith — 

Endure — adore ! 






THE NAMELESS ONE. 



Roll forth, my song, like the rushing river, 

That sweeps along to the mighty sea ; 
God will inspire me while I deliver 
My soul of thee ! 

Tell thou the world, when my bones lie 
whitening 
Amid the last homes of youth and eld, 
That there was once one whose veins ran 
lightning 

No eye beheld. 

Tell how his boyhood was one drear night- 
hour, 
How shone for him, through his griefs and 
gloom, 
No star of all heaven sends to light oar 
Path to the tomb. 

Roll on, my song, and to after ages 
Tell how, disdaining all earth can give, 






POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



He would have taught men, from wisdom's 


At thirty-nine, from despair and woe, 


pages, 


He lives, enduring what future story 


The way to live. 


Will never know. 


And tell how trampled, derided, hated, 


Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble, 


And worn by weakness, disease, and wrong, 


Deep in your bosoms ! There let him 


He fled for shelter to God, who mated 


dwell ! 


His soul with song — 


He, too, had tears for all souls in trouble, 




Here and in hell. 


With song which alway, sublime or vapid, 




Flow'd like a rill in the morning-beam, 
Perchance not deep, but intense and rajpid — 






A mountain stream. 






THE DYING ENTHUSIAST. 


Tell he w this Nameless, condemn'd for years 




long 


BALLAD. 


To herd with demons from hell beneath, 




Saw things that made him, with groans and 


Speak no more of life, 


tears, long 


What can life bestow, 


For even death. 


In this amphitheatre of strife, 




All times dark with tragedy and woe ? 


Go on to tell how, with genius wasted, 


Knowest thou not how care and pain 


Betray'd in friendship, befool'd in love, 


Build their lampless dwelling in the brain, 


With spirit shipwreck'd, and young hopes 


Ever, as the stern intrusion 


blasted, 


Of our teachers, time and truth, 


He still, still strove. 


Turn to gloom the bright illusion, 




Rainbow' d on the soul of youth ? 


Till, spent with toil, dreeing death for others, 


Could I live to find that this is so ? 


And some whose hands should have 


Oh ! no ! no ! 


wrought for him, 




(If children Uve not for sires and mothers), 


As the stream of time 


His mind grew dim. 


Sluggishly doth flow, 




Look how all of beaming and sublime, 


And he fell far through that pit abysmal, 


Sinks into the black abysm below. 


The gulf and grave of Maginn and Burns, 


Yea, the loftiest intellect, 


And pawn'd his soul for the devil's dismal 


Earliest on the strand of life is wreck'd. 


Stock of returns. 


Nought of lovely, nothing glorious, 




Lives to triumph o'er decay ; 


But yet redeem'd it in days of darkness, 


Desolation reigns victorious — 


And shapes and signs of the final wrath, 


Mind is dungeon wall'd by clay : 


When death, in hideous and ghastly starkness, 


Could I bear to feel mine own laid low? 


Stood on his path. 


Oh ! no ! no ! 


And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow, 


Restless o'er the earth, 


And want, and sickness, and houseless 


Thronging millions go : 


nights, 


But behold how genius, love, and worth 


He bides in calmness the silent morrow, 


Move like lonely phantoms to and frc. 


That no ray lights. 


Suns are quench'd, and kingdoms fall, 




But the doom of these outdarkens all ! 


And lives he still, then? Yes! Old and 


Die they then ? Yes, love's devot'on, 


hoary 


Stricken, withers in its bloom ; 



*20 



POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



Fond affections, deep as ocean, 

In their cradle find their tomb : 
Shall I linger, then, to count each throe ? 
Oh ! no ! no ! 

Prison-bursting death 1 
Welcome be thy blow ! 
Thine is but the forfeit of my breath, 

Not the spirit ! nor the spirit's glow. 
Spheres of beauty — hallow'd spheres, 

Undefaced by time, undimm'd by tears, 
Henceforth hail ! oh, who would grovel 

In a world impure as this? 
Who would weep, in cell or hovel, 

When a palace might be his ? 
Wouldst thou have me the bright lot forego ' 
Oh ! no ! no ! 



TO JOSEPH BRENAN. 



Feiend and brother, and yet more than 

brother, 
Thou endow'd with all of Shelley's soul ! 
Thou whose heart so burneth for thy mother, 1 
That, like his, it may defy all other 

Flames, while time shall roll ! 

Thou of language bland, and manner meekest, 

Gentle bearing, yet unswerving will — 
Gladly, gladly, list I when thou speakest, 
Honor'd highly is the man thou seekest 
To redeem from ill ! 

Truly showest thou me the one thing needful ! 

Thou art not, nor is the world yet blind. 
Truly have I been long years unheedful 
Of the thorns and tares, that choked the 
weedful 
Garden of my mind ! 

Thorns and tares, which rose in rank pro- 
fusion, 
Round my scanty fruitage and my flowers, 
Till 1 almost deem'd it self-delusion, 
Any attempt or glance at their extrusion 
From their midnight bowers. 



Dream and waking life have now been 

blended 
Long time in the caverns of my soul — 
Oft in daylight have my steps descended 
Down to that dusk realm where all is ended, 

Save remeadless dole ! 

Oft, with tears, I have groan'd to God for 

pity- 
Oft gone wandering till my way grew dim — 
Oft sung unto Him a prayerful ditty — 
Oft, all lonely in this throngful city, 

Raised my soul to Him ! 

And from path to path His mercy track'd me— 

From a many a peril snatch'd He me ; 
When false friends pursued, betray'd, at 

tack'd me, 
When gloom overdark'd, and sickness rack'd 
me, 
He was by to save and free ! 

Friend ! thou warnest me in truly noble 
Thoughts and phrases ! I will heed thee 
well — 
Well will I obey thy mystic double 
Counsel, through all scenes of woe and 
trouble, 
As a magic spell ! 

Yes ! to live a bard, in thought and feeling ! 

Yes ! to act my rhyme, by self-restraint, 
This is truth's, is reason's deep revealing, 
Unto me from thee, as God's to a kneeling 
And entranced saint ! 

Fare thee well ! we now know each the other, 
Each has struck the other's inmost chords- 
Fare thee well, my friend and more than 

brother, 
And may scorn pursue me if I smother 

In my soul thy words ! 



TWENTY GOLDEN YEARS AGO. 
Oh, the rain, the weary, dreary rain, 

How it plashes on the window-sill ! 
Night, I guess too, must be on the wane, 

Strass and Gass 1 around are grown so stilL 

i street and lane. 






POEMS BY JAMES CLARENCE MAN G AN. 



Here I sit, with coffee in my cup — 
Ah ! 'twas rarely I beheld it flow 

In the tavern where I loved to sup 
Twenty golden years ago ! 

Twenty years ago, alas ! — hut stay — 

On my life, 'tis half-past twelve o'clock ! 
After all, the hours do slip away — 

Come, here goes to burn another block ! 
For the night, or morn, is wet and cold ; 

And my fire is dwindling rather low : — 
I had fire enough, when yoimg and bold, 

Twenty golden years ago. 

Dear ! I don't feel well at all, somehow : 

Few in Weimar dream how bad I am ; 
Floods of tears grow common with me now, 

High-Dutch floods, that reason cannot dam. 
Doctors think I'll neither live nor thrive 

If I mope at home so ; — I don't know — 
Am I living now f I was alive 

Twenty golden years ago. 

Wifeless, friendless, flagonless, alone, 

Not quite bookless, though, unless I choose, 
Left with nought to do, except to groan, 

Not a soul to woo, except the muse — 
Oh ! this is hard for me to bear, 

Me, who whilome lived so much en haut, 
Me, who broke all hearts like china-ware, 

Twenty golden years ago ! 

Perhaps 'tis better ; — time's defacing waves, 
Long have quench'd the radiance of my 
brow — 



They who curse me nightly from thtji giaven", 
Scarce could love me were they living now j 

But my loneliness hath darker ills — 

Such dun duns as Conscience, Thought 
and Co., 

Awful Gorgons ! worse than tailors' bills 
Twenty golden years ago ! 

Did I paint a fifth of what I feel, 

Oh, how plaintive you would ween I w«t* f 
But I won't, albeit I have a deal 

More to wail about than Kerner has ! 
Kerner's tears are wept for wither'd flowers, 

Mine for wither'd hopes ; my scroll of woe 
Dates, alas ! from youth's deserted bowers, 

Twenty golden years ago ! 

Tet, may Deutschland's bardlings flourish 
long; 

Me, I tweak no beak among them ; — hawks 
Must not pounce on hawks : besides, in song 

I could once beat all of them by chalks. 
Though you find me as I near my goal, 

Sentimentalizing like Rousseau, 
Oh ! I had a grand Byronian soul 

Twenty golden years ago ! 

Tick-tick, tick-tick !— not a sound save Time's. 

And the wind-gust as it drives the rain — 
Tortured torturer of reluctant rhymes, 

Go to bed, and rest thine aching brain ! 
Sleep ! — no more the dupe of hopes or 
schemes ; 

Soon thou sleepest where the thistles blow- 
Curious anticlimax to thy dreams 

Twenty golden years ago ! 



POEMS BY RICHARD B. SHERIDAN. 






AH ! CRUEL MAID. 

[Moore, In his Life of Sheridan, Bays, this song, " for deep, 
Impassioned feeling and natnral eloquence, has not, perhaps, 
Its rival through the whole range of lyric poetry."] 

Ah, cruel maid, how hast thou changed 

The temper of my mind ! 
My heart, by thee from love estranged, 

Becomes, like thee, unkind. 

By fortune favor'd, clear in fame, 

I once ambitious was ; 
And friends I had, who fann'd the flame, 

And gave my youth applause. 

But now, my weakness all accuse: 

Yet vain their taunts on me ; 
Friends, fortune, fame itself, I'd lose, 

To gain one smile from thee. 

And only thou should not despise 

My weakness, or my woe; 
If I am mad in others' eyes, 

'Tis thou hast made me so. 

But days, like this, with doubting curst, 

I will not long endure : 
Am I disdain'd — I know the worst, 

And likewise know my cure. 

If false, her vows she dare renounce, 

That instant ends my pain ; 
For, oh I the heart must break at once, 

That cannot hate again. 



HOW OPT, LOUISA. 

FROM "THE DUENNA." 

How oft, Louisa, hast thou said — 

Nor wilt thou the fond boast disown- 

Thou wouldst not lose Antouio's love 
To reign the partner of a throne ! 



And by those lips that spoke so kind, 
And by this hand I press'd to mine, 

To gain a subject nation's love 

I swear I would not part.with thine. 

Then how, my soul, can we be poor, 

Who own what kingdoms could not buy? 
Of this true heart thou shalt be queen, 

And, serving thee — a monarch I. 
And thus controll'd in mutual bliss, 

And rich in love's exhaustless mine — 
Do thou snatch treasures from my lip, 

And I'll take kingdoms back from thine t 



HAT) I A HEART FOR FALSEHOOD 
FRAMED. 

(air — "molly astoke.") 

Had I a heart for falsehood framed, 

I ne'er could injure you, 
For, tho' your tongue no promise claim'a, 

Your charms would make me true; 
Then, lady, dread not here deceit, 

Nor fear to suffer wrong, 
For friends in all the aged you'U meet, 

And lovers in the young. 

But when they find that you have bless'd 

Another with your heart, 
They'll bid aspiring passion rest, 

And act a brother's part. 
Then, lady, dread not here deceit, 

Nor fear to suffer wrong, 
For friends in all the aged you'll meet, 

And brothers in the young. 

In speaking of the lyrics in the Opera of" The Duenna," 
Moore says : "By far the greater nnmber of the songs are lull 
of beauty, and some of them may rank among the best models 
of lyric writing. The verses 'Had I a heart for falsehood 
framed,' notwithstanding the stiffness of this word ' framed, 
and one or two slight blemishes, are not unworthy of living 
in recollection with the matchlees air to which they are 




EMHSOJElf 5DOE080IMH, 



. 



POEMS BY RICHARD B. SHERIDAN. 



423 



OH YIELD, PAIR LIDS. 

(from an unfinished ms. drama.) 
Oh yield, fair lids, the treasures of my heart, 
Release those beams, that make this man- 
sion bright ; 
From her sweet sense, Slumber! though 
sweet thou art, 
Begone, and give the air she breathes in 
light. 

Or while, O Sleep, thou dost those glances 
hide, 

Let rosy Slumbers still around her play, 
Sweet as the cherub Innocence enjoy'd, 

When in thy lap, new-born, in smiles he lay. 

And thou, O Dream, that com'st her sleep 
to cheer, 
Oh take my shape, and play a lover's part ; 
Kiss her from me, and whisper in her ear, 



Till her eyes 
heart. 



'tis night within my 



It may be inferred from a passage in Moore's " Life of Sher- 
idan," that he intended the unfinished drama, whence these 
lines are taken, to be called "The Foresters ;" and that he was 
rery hopeful of it, for he was wont to exclaim occasionally, to 
confidential friends, "Ah, wait till my Foresters comes out 1" 



A BUMPER OF GOOD LIQUOR 

(prom "the duenna.") 
A bumper of good liquor 
Will end a contest quicker 
Than justice, judge, or vicar; 
So fill a cheerful glass, 
And let good humor pass : 
But if more deep the quarrel, 
Why, sooner drain the barrel 
Than be the hateful fellow 
That's crabbed when he's mellow. 
A bumper, &c. 



lUhla Is also from the same MS. drama noticed in the fore- 
going song of " Oh yield, fair lids."] 

" We two, each other's only pride, 
Each other's bliss, each other's guide, 
Far from the world's unhallow'd noise, 
Its coarse delights and tainted joys, 



Through wilds will roam and deserts 

rude — 
For, Love, thy home is solitude." 

' There shall no vain pretender be, 
To court thy smile and torture me, 
No proud superior there be seen, 
But nature's voice shall hail thee, queen.' 

' With fond respect and tender awe, 
I will obey thy gentle law, 
Obey thy looks, and serve thee still, 
Prevent thy wish, foresee thy will, 
And added to a lover's care, 
Be all that friends and parents are." 



COULD I HER FAULTS REMEMBER 

Could I her faults remember, 
Forgetting every charm, 

Soon would impartial Reason 
The tyrant Love disarm. 

But when, enraged, I number 
Each failing of her mind, 

Love, still, suggests each beauty, 
And sees, while Reason's blind 



BY CffiLIA'S ARBOR 
By Coelia's arbor, all the night, 

Hang, humid wreath — the lover's vow ; 
And haply, at the morning's light, 

My love will twine thee round her brow. 

And if upon her bosom bright 

Some drops of dew should fall from thee ; 
Tell her they are not drops of night, 

But tears of sorrow shed by me. 

In these charming lines Sheridan has wroaght to a higher 
degree of finish an idea to be found in an early poem of his ad- 
dressed to Miss Linley, beginning " Uncouth is this moss-cov- 
ered grotto of stone." The poem is too long for quotation at 
length, and, in truth, not worth it, the choice bit Sheridan re- 
membered, however, and reconstructed as above. The original 
Sidea stood thus : 

"And thou, stony grot, in thy arch mayst preserve 
Two lingering drops of the night-fallen dew ; 
And just let them fall at her feet, and they'll serve 
As tears of my sorrow intrusted to you. 

" Or, lest they unheeded should fall at her feet. 
Let them fall on her bosom of snow ; and I swear 
The next time I visit thy moss-cover'd seat, 
I'll pay thee each drop with a genuine tear." 



POEMS BY RICHARD B. SHERIDAN. 



LET THE TOAST PASS. 

Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen, 

Here's to the widow of fifty ; 
Here's to the flaunting extravagant queen, 

And here's to the housewife that's thrifty: 
Chorus. Let the toast pass, 

Drink to the lass, 
I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the 
glass. 

Hei e's to the charmer whose dimples we prize, 
Now to the maid who has none, sir, 

Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes, 
And here's to the nymph with but one, sir : 

Chorus. Let the toast pass, &c. 

Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow, 
And to her that's as brown as a berry; 

Here's to the wife, with a face full of woe, 
And now to the girl that is merry • 

Chorus. Let the toast pass, &c. 

For let 'em be clumsy, or let 'em be slim. 

Young, or ancient, I care not a feather; 
So fill the pint bumper* quite up to the brim, 

And let e'en us toast them together : 
Chorus. Let the toast pass, &c. 



O, THE DAYS "WHEN I "WAS YOUNG! 

(from "the duenna.") 
O, the days when I was young ! 

When I laugh'd in fortune's spite, 
Talk'd of love the whole day long, 

And with nectar crown'd the nisrht : 



* Those were the days of hard drinking (let us be thankful 
they are passed away), when they not only filled a "pint 
bumper." but swallowed it at a draught, if they meant to be 
thought "pretty fellows." I remember of hearing a witty 

reply which was made (as it was reported) by Sir H s 

L e. an Irish ion vivant of the last century, to his doctor, 

who had cut him down to a pint of wine daily, when he was 
on the sick-list. Now the convivial baronet was what was 
called, in those days, a "sis-bottle man,"— and, we may sup- 
pose, felt very miserable on a pint of wine per diem. The 
doctor called the day after he had issued his merciless decree, 
and hoped his patient was better. "I hope yen only took a 
pint of wine yesterday," said he. Thebaronetnoddedamelan- 
choly assent. "Now, don't think so badly of this injunction 
of mine, my dear friend," continued the doctor, "you may 
rely upon it. it will lengthen your days." " That I believe," 
returned Sir Hercules, " for yesterday seemed to me the longest 
*ay I ever spent in my life." 



Then it was, old father Care, 
Little reck'd I of thy frown ; 

Half thy malice youth could bear, 
And the rest a bumper drown. 

Truth they say lies in a well ; 

Why, I vow I ne'er could see, 
Let the water-drinkers tell — 

There it always lay for me ! 
For when sparkling wine went round 

Never saw I falsehood's mask: 
But still honest Truth I found 

In the bottom of each flask. 

True, at length my vigor's flown, 

I have years to bring decay : 
Few the locks that now I own, 

And the few I have are gray; 
Yet, old Jerome, thou mayst boast 

While thy spirits do not tire, 
Still beneath thy age's frost 

Glows a spark of youthful fire. 



DRY BE THAT TEAR. 

Dry be that tear, my gentlest love, 
Be hush'd that struggling sigh ; 

Nor seasons, day, nor fate shall prove, 
More fix'd, more true, than I : 

Hush'd be that sigh, be dry that tear, 

Cease boding doubt, cease anxious fear — 
Dry be that tear. 

Ask'st thou how long my love shall stay 
When all that's new is past ? 

How long, ah ! Delia, can I say, 
How long my life shall last ? 

Dry be that tear, be hush'd that sigh, 

At least I'll love thee till I die— 
Hush'd be that sigh. 

And does that thought affect thee, too, 
The thought of Sylvio's death, 

That he, who only breathed for you, 
Must yield that faithful breath ? 

Hush'd be that sigh, be dry that tear, 

Nor let us lose our heaven here — 
Dry be that tear. 



POEMS BY RICHARD B. SHERIDAN. 



425 



WHAT BARD, TIME, DISCOVER. 

What bard, O Time, discover, 

With wings first made thee move ! 
Ah ! sure he was some lover 
Who ne'er had left his love ! 
For who that once did prove 
The pangs which absence brings, 
Though but one day 
He were away, 
Could picture thee with wings ? 

These sweet and ingenious lines are from " The Duenna." 
The song does not appear in the late editions of the opera. I 
obtained it from an old Dublin edition, dated 17S0— where the 
pieee is entitled, " The Duenna, or double elopement ; a comic 
opera, as it is enacted at the Theatre, Smoke Alley, Dublin." 
(Properly called Smock Alley.) In this edition most outrageous 
liberties have been taken with the original test. 



ALAS! THOU HAST NO WINGS, OH! TIME. 

[In the lines that follow will be found the original form of 
the idea which the author so much improved in the foregoing. 
Moore, in his Life of Sheridan, gives numerous instances of 
the extreme care with which he filed and poliBhed np his 
shafts of wit to bring them to the finest point. In this prac- 
tice no one could better sympathize than Moore.] 

Alas ! thou hast no wings, oh ! time ; 
It was some thoughtless lover's rhyme, 
Who, writing in his Chloe's view, 
Paid her the compliment through you. 

For had he, if he truly loved, 
But once the pangs of absence proved, 
He'd cropt thy wings, and, in their stead, 
Have painted thee with heels of lead. 



I NE'ER COULD ANY LUSTRE SEE. 

I ne'eb could any lustre see, 

In eyes that would not look on me ; 

I ne'er saw nectar on a lip, 

But where my own did hope to sip. 

Has the maid, who seeks my heart, 
Cheeks of rose, untouch'd by art ? 
I will own the color true, 
When yielding blushes aid their hue. 



Is her hand so soft and pure ? 
I must press it, to be sure ; 
Nor can I be certain then, 
'Till it grateful press again. 

Must I, with attentive eye, 
Watch her heaving bosom sigh ? 
I will do so, when I see 
That heaving bosom sigh for ma, 



WHEN SABLE NIGHT. 

When sable night, each drooping plant re- 
storing, 
Wept o'er her flowers, her breath did 
cheer, 
As some sad widow o'er her baby deploring, 

Wakes its beauty with a tear — 
When all did sleep whose weary hearts 
could borrow 
One hour of love from care to rest ; 
Lo ! as I press'd my couch in silent sorrow 
My lover caught me to his breast. 

He vow'd he came to save me 
From those that would enslave me ; 
Then kneeling, 
Kisses stealing, 
Endless faith he swore ! 

But soon I chid him thence, 
For had his fond pretence 
Obtain'd one favor then, 
And he had press'd again, 
I fear'd my treach'rous heart might grant 
him more. 



Bums, in his correspondence with Mr. George 
the publisher, writes thus : " There is a pretty English sonji 
by Sheridan, in ' The Duenna,' to this air, which is out ol 
sight superior to D'Urfey's. It begins— 

'When Bable night, each drooping plant restoring.' 

" The air, if I understand the expression of it properly, is UM 
very native language of simplicity, tenderness, and lore. 1 
have again gone over my song to the tune, as follows : 

' Sleep'st thou or wak'st thou, fairest creature? 

Rosy morn now lifts his eye, 

Numbering ilka bud which Nature 

Waters with the tears of joy.' " 

The idea conveyed in the words I have given in italics, 1> 
but the repetition of Sheridan's idea of Sable Night weeping 
over her flcwers. 



POEMS BY RICHARD B. SHERIDAN. 



THE MID-WATCH. 

When 'tis night, and the mid-watch is come, 
And chilling mists hang o'er the darken'd 
main, 
Then sailors think of their far-distant home, 
And of those friends they ne'er may see 
again; 
But when the fight's begun, 
Each serving at his gun, 
Should any thought of them come o'er your 
mind; 
Think, only, should the day be won, 
How 'twill cheer 
Their hearts to hear 
That their old companion he was one. 

Or, my lad, if you a mistress kind 
Have left on shore, some pretty girl and 
true, 
Who many a night doth listen to the wind, 
And sighs to think how it may fare with 
you: 
Oh, when the fight's begun, 
You serving at your gun, 
Should any thought of her come o'er your 
mind* 



Think, only, should the day be won, 
How 'twill cheer 
Her heart to hear 
That her own true sailor be wan one. 



MARKED YOU HER CHEEK r 

Maek'd you her cheek of rosy hue ? 
Mark'd you her eye of sparkling blue? 
That eye, in liquid circles moving ; 
That cheek, abash'd at Man's approving : 
The one, Love's arrows darting round •. 
The other, blushing at the wound : 
Did she not speak, did she not move, 
Now Pallas — now the queen of love ! 

These lines are generally supposed to have been writtsrr 
npon Miss Linley ; bnt Moore, in his Life of Sheridan, tells no 
Lady Margaret Fordyce was the object of this sparkling 
eulogy. They are part of a long poem in which, to ^se 
Moore's words, "they shine out so conspicuously, that wo. 
cannot wonder at their having been so soon detached, like ill- 
set gems, from the loose and clumsy workmanship around 
them." In the same poem, says Moore, we find " one of 
those familiar lines which so many quote without knowing 
whence they come ; one of those stray fragments whose 
parentage is doubtful, but to which (as the law says of illeg" li- 
mate children), 'pater est pqpulus.' " 

" Ton write with ease to show your breeding, 
But easy writing's aurst hard reading:' 






THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, 
Where health and plenty cheer'd the labor- 
ing swain, 
Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid, 
And parting Summer's lingering blooms 

delay'd ; 
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 
Seats of my youth, when every sport could 

please- 
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, 
Where humble happiness endear'd each scene ! 
How often have I paused on every charm — 
The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm, 
The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 
The decent church that topt the neighboring 

hill, 
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the 

shade, 
For talking age and whispering lovers made ! 
How often have I bless'd the coming day 
When toil remitting lent its turn to play, 
And all the village train, from labor free,. 
Led up their sports beneath the spreading 

tree; 
While many a pastime circled in the shade, 
The young contending as the old survey'd ; 
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground, 
And sleights of art and feats of strength 

went round, 
And still, as each repeated pleasure tired, 
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired ; 
The dancing pair that simply sought renown 
By holding out to tire each other down ; 
The swain mistrustless of his smutted face, 
While secret laughter titter'd round the 

place ; 



The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, 

The matron's glance that would those looka 
reprove ! 

These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports 
like these, 

With sweet succession, taught even toil to 
please ; 

These round thy bowers their cheerful influ- 
ence shed ; 

These were thy charms — but all these charms 
are fled. 

Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 
Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms with- 
drawn ; 
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 
And desolation saddens all thy green : 
One only master grasps the whole domain, 
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. 
No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, 
But choked with sedges works its weary 

way; 
Along thy glades, a solitary guest, 
The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest - r 
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries ; 
Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 
And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering 

wall; 
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's 

hand, 
Far, far away, thy children leave the land. 

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, 

Where wealth accumulates and men decay : 

Princes and lords may flourish or may fade— 

A breath can make them, as a breath has- 

made: 



428 



THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 
When once destroy'd can never be supplied. 

A time there was, ere England's griefs be- 
gan, 

When every rood of ground maintain'd its 
man; 

For him light labor spread her wholesome 
store, 

Just gave what life required, but gave no 
more : 

His best companions, innocence and health, 

And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. 

But times are alter'd; trade's unfeeling 
train 
Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain : 
Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets 

rose, 
Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp re- 
pose ; 
And every want to luxury allied, 
And every pang that folly pays to pride. 
Those gentle hours that plenty bade to 

bloom, 
Those calm desires that ask'd but little room, 
Those healthful sports that graced the peace- 
ful scene, 
Lived in each look, and brigUen'd all the 

green ; — 
These, far departing, seek a kinder shore, 
And rural mirth and manners are no more. 

Sweet Auburn parent of the blissful hour, 
Thy glades fov.orn confess the tyrant's power. 
Here, as I take my solitary rounds, 
Amidst thy tangling walks and ruin'd 

grounds, 
And, many a year elapsed, return to view 
Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn 

grew — 
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train, 
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to 

pain. 

In all my wanderings round this world of 
care, 
In all my griefs — and God has given my 

share — 
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, 
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down ; 
To husband out life's taper at the close, 



And keep the flame from wasting, by repose. 
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, 
Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd 

skill— 
Around my fire an evening group to draw, 
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ; 
And, as an hare, whom hounds and horns 

pursue, 
Pants to the place from whence at first he 

flew, 
I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 
Here to return — and die at home at last. 

bless'd retirement, friend to life's decline , 
Retreats from care, that never must be 

mine,— 
How blest is he who crowns, in shades like 

these, 
A youth of labor with an age of ease ; 
Who quits the world where strong tempta- 
tions try— 
And, since 'tis hard to combat, learns to 

fly! 
For him no wretches, born to work and weep, 
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous 

deep; 
No surly porter stands, in guilty state, 
To spurn imploring famine from the gate ; 
But on he moves to meet his latter end, 
Angels around befriending virtue's friend — 
Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay, 
While resignation gently slopes the way — 
And, all his prospects brightening to the 

last, 
His heaven commences ere the world be 

pass'd. 

Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's 
close 

Up yonder hill the village murmur rose. 

There, as I pass'd with careless steps and 
slow, 

The mingling notes came soften'd from be- 
low: 

The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung, 

The sober herd that low'd to meet their 
young, 

The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, 

The playful children just let loose from 
school, 

The watchdog's voice that bay'd the whis- 
pering wind 



THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



429 



And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant 

mind — 
These all in sweet confusion sought the 

shade, 
And fill'd each pause the nightingale had 

made. 
But now the sounds of population fail, 
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, 
No busy steps the grass-grown footway 

tread, 
For all the blooming flush of life is fled — 
All but yon widow'd, solitary thing, 
That feebly bends beside the plashy spring ; 
She, wretched matron — forced in age, for 

bread, 
To strip the brook with mantling cresses 

spread, 
To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn, 
To seek her nightly shed, and weep till 

morn — 
She only left of all the harmless train, 
The sad historian of the pensive plain ! 

Near yonder copse, where once the garden 



And still where many a garden flower grows 

wild — 
There, where a few torn shrubs the place 

disclose, 
The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
A man he was to all the country dear, 
And passing rich with forty pounds a year. 
Remote from towns he ran his godly race, 
Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change, 

his place ; 
Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power, 
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour; 
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to 

prize — 
More bent to raise the wretched than to 

rise. 
His house was known to all the vagrant 

train ; 
He chid their wanderings, but relieved their 

pain: 
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest, 
Whose beard descending swept his aged 

breast ; 
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims 

allow' d ; 
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 



Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away — 
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow 

done, 
Shoulder'd his crutch and show'd how fields 

were won. 
Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd 

to glow, 
And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
Careless their merits or their faults to scan, 
His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was bis pride, 
And even his failings lean'd to virtue's side — 
But in his duty prompt at every call, 
He watch'd and wept, he prav'd and felt for 

all; 
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries 
To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the 

skies, 
He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 
Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 



side the bed where parting life was 
laid, 

And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dis- 
may'd, 

The reverend champion stood. At his con- 
trol 

Despair and anguish fled the struggling 
soul; 

Comfort came down the trembling wretch 
to raise, 

And his last faltering accents whisper'd 
praise. 

At church, with meek and unaffected- 
grace, 

His looks adorn'd the venerable place ; 

Truth from Ms lips prevail'd with double 
sway, 

And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to 
pray. 

The service pass'd, around the pious man 

With ready zeal each honest rustic ran ; 

Even children follow'd, with endearing wile, 

And pluck'd his gown, to share the good 
man's smile : 

His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd, 

Their welfare pleased him, and their cares 
distress'd. 

To them his heart, his love, his griefs were 
given, 



THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



Gut all his serious thoughts had rest in 

heaven : 
As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form, 
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the 

storm, 
Though round its hreast the rolling clouds 

are spread, 
Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Beside yon straggling fence that skirts 

the way 
With blossom'd furze unprofitably gay — 
There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, 
The village master taught his little school. 
A man severe he was, and stern to view ; 
I knew him well, and every truant knew : 
Well bad the boding tremblers learn'd to 

trace 
The day's disasters in his morning face ; 
Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited 

glee 
At all his jokes — for many a joke had he; 
Full well the busy whisper, circling round, 
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he 

frown'd. 
Yet he was kind ; or if severe in aught, 
The love he bore to learning was in fault. 
The village all declared how much he knew — 
'Twas certain he could write, and cipher too ; 
Lands he could measure, terms and tides 



And even the story ran that he could gauge. 

In arguing, too, the parson own'd his skill, 

For even though vanquish'd, he could argue 
still ; 

While words of learned length and thunder- 
ing sound 

Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around — 

And still they gazed, and still the wonder 
grew 

That one small head could carry all he knew. 

But pass'd is all his fame ; the very spot 

Where many a time he triumph'd is forgot. 

Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on 
high, 

Where once the sign-post caught the pass- 
ing eye, 

Low lies that house where nutbrown draughts 
inspired, 

Where graybeard mirth and smiling toil 
retired, 



Where village statesmen talk'd with looks 

profound, 
And news much older than their ale went 

round. 
Imagination fondly stoops to trace 
The parlor splendors of that festive place; 
The whitewash'd wall, the nicely sanded 

floor, 
The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the 

door; 
The chest contrived a double debt to pay, 
A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; 
The pictures placed for ornament and use, 
The twelve good rules, the royal game of 

goose ; 
The hearth, except when Winter chill'd the 

day, 
With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel 

gay; 

While broken teacups, wisely kept for show, 
Ranged o'er the chimney, glisten'd in a row. 

Vain transitory splendors ! could not all 
Reprieve the tottering mansion from its 

fall? 
Obscure it sinks; nor shall it more impart 
An hour's importance to the poor man's 

heart : 
Thither no more the peasant shall repair 
To sweet oblivion of his daily care ; 
No more the farmer's news, the barber's 

tale, 
No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail ; 
No more the smith his dusky brow shall 

clear, 
Relax his ponderous strength and lean to 

hear; 
The host himself no longer shall be found 
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round ; 
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be press'd, 
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 

Ves! let the rich deride, the proud dis- 
dain, 
These simple blessings of the lowly train — 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart, 
One native charm than all the gloss of art. 
Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, 
The soul adopts, and owns their first-born 

sway; 
Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind, 
Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined : 



THE POEMS OP OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



But the long pomp, the midnight masque- 
rade, 
With all the freaks of wanton wealth 

array'd, 
In these, ere triflers half their wish ohtain, 
The toiling pleasure sickens into pain — 
And, even while fashion's brightest arts de- 
coy, 
The heart distrusting asks if this be joy ? 



Ye iriends to truth, ye statesmen who 

survey 
The rich man's joys increase, the poor's de- 
cay — 
'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits 

stand 
Between a splendid and a happy land. 
Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted 

ore, 
And shouting folly hails them from her 

shore ; 
Hoards even beyond the Miser's wish abound, 
And rich men flock from all the world 

around ; 
Yet count our gains : this wealth is but a 

name 
That leaves our useful products still the 

same. 
Not so the loss. The man of wealth and 

pride 
Takes up a space that many poor supplied — 
Space for his lake, his park's extended 

bounds, 
Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds ; 
The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth 
Has robb'd the neighboring fields of half 

their growth ; 
His seat, where solitary spots are seen, 
Indignant spurns the cottage from the green ; 
Around the world each needful product flies, 
For all the luxuries the world supplies : 
While thus the land, adorn'd for pleasure, 

all 
In barren splendor feebly waits the fall. 



As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain, 
Secure to please while youth confirms her 

reign, 
Slights every borrow'd charm that dress 

supplies, 



Nor shares with art the triumph of kti 

eyes — 
But when those charms are pass'd, for charms 

are frail, 
When time advances, and when lovers fail- 
She then shines forth, solicitous to bless, 
In all the glaring impotence of dress. 
Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd: 
In nature's simplest charms at first array'd — 
But verging to decline, its splendors rise, 
Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ; 
While, scourged by famine, from the smiling 

land 
The mournful peasant leads his humble band ; 
And while he sinks, without one arm to save, 
The country blooms — a garden and a grave. 



Where then, ah, where shall poverty reside, 
To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? 
If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd 
He drives his flocks to pick the scanty blade, 
Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth di- 
vide, 
And even the bare-worn common is denied. 



If to the city sped — what waits him there ? 

To see profusion that he must not share ; 

To see ten thousand baneful arts combined 

To pamper luxury and thin mankind ; 

To see each joy the sons of pleasure know 

Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe : 

Here while the courtier glitters in brocade, 

There the pale artist pbes the sickly trade ; 

Here while the proud their long-drawn 
pomps display, 

There the black gibbet glooms beside the 
way. 

The dome where pleasure holds her mid- 
night reign, 

Here, richly deck'd, admits the gorgeous 
train — 

Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing 
square, 

The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. 

Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy ; 

Sure these denote one universal joy ? 

Are these thy serious thoughts ? Ah, turn 
thine eyes 

Where the poor houseless shivering 



_. 



THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



She once, perhaps, in village plenty bless'd, 
Has wept at tales of innocence distress'd ; 
Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, 
Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the 

thorn ; 
Now lost to all — her friends, her virtue fled, 
Near her betrayer's door she lays her head — 
And pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from 

the shower, 
"With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour 
When idly first, ambitious of the town, 
She left her wheel and robes of country 

brown. 



Do thine, sweet Auburn ! thine, the love- 
liest train — 
Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? 
Even now perhaps, by cold and hunger led, 
At proud men's doors they ask a little bread. 



Ah, no ! To distant climes, a dreary 

scene, 
Where half the convex world intrudes be-. 

tween, 
Through torrid tracks with fainting steps 

they go, 
Where wild Altama 1 murmurs to their v, oe. 
Far different there from all that charm'd be- 
fore, 
The various terrors of that horrid shore; 
Those blazing suns that dart a downward 

ray, 
And fiercely shed intolerable day — 
Those matted woods where birds forget to 

sing, 
But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling — 
Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance 

crown'd, 
Where the dark scorpion gathers death 

around — 
Where at each step the stranger fears to 

wake 
The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake — 
Where crouching tigers wait their hapless 

prey, 
And savage men more murderous still than 

they — 
While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies. 



In Georgia, North America. 



Mingling the ravaged landscape with tht 

skies. 
Far different these from every former scene ; 
The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green, 
The breezy covert of the warbling grove, 
That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. 



Good Heaven ! what sorrrows gloom'd 

that parting day, 
That call'd them from their native walka 

away ; 
When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 
Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd 

their last — 
And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain 
For seats like these beyond the western 

main — 
And, shuddering still to face the distant 

deep, 
Return'd and wept, and still return'd to 

weep. , 

The good old sire, the first prepared to go 
To new-found worlds, and wept for others' 

woe — 
But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, 
He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave. 
His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 
The fond companion of his helpless years, 
Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, 
And left a lover's for her father's arms. 
With louder plaints the mother spoke her 

woes, 
And bless'd the cot where every pleasure 

rose, 
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many 

a tear, 
And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly 

dear — 
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief 
In all the silent manliness of grief. 



O luxury ! thou curst by Heaven's decree, 
How ill exchanged are things like these for 

thee ! 
How do thy potions, with insidious joy, 
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy ! 
Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, 
Boast of a florid vigor not their own : 
At every draught more large and large they 

grow, 



THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe ; 
Till, sapp'd their strength, and every part 

unsound, 
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin 

round. 



E'en now the devastation is begun, 
And half the business of destruction done; 
E'en now, methinks, as pondering here I 

stand, 
I see the rural virtues leave the land. 
Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads 

the sail 
That idly waiting flaps with every gale, 
Downward they move, a melancholy band, 
Fass fi»m the shore, and darken all the 

strand : 
Contented toil, and hospitable care, 
And kind connubial tenderness are there, 
And piety with wishes placed above, 
And steady loyalty, and faithful love. 
Aud thou, 'sweet Poetry, thou loveliest 

maid, 
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade ; 
Unfit, in these degenerate times of shame, 
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame : 
Dear charming nymph, neglected and de- 
cried, 
My shame in crowds, my solitary pride ; 
Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe, 
That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st 

me so; 
Thou guide, by which the noble arts excel, 
Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well ! 
Farewell ; and, oh, where'er thy voice be 

tried, 
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, 
Whether where equinoctial fervors glow, 
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, 
Redress the rigors of th' inclement clime ; 
Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain ; 
Teach erring«man to spurn the rage of gain ; 
Teach him, that states of native strength 

possess'd, 
Though very poor, may still be very bless'd ; 
That trade's proud empire hastes to swift 

decay, 
As ocean sweeps the labor'd mole away ; 
While self-dependent power can time defy, 
As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 



THE TRAVELLER. 

Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slew, 
Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po ; 
Or onward where the rude Carinthian boor 
Against the houseless stranger shuts the 

door, 
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies, 
A weary waste expanding to the skies — 
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, 
My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee; 
Still to my brother turns with ceaseless pain, 
And drags at each remove a lengthening 

chain. 

Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, 
And round his dwelling guardian saints 

attend : 
Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests 

retire 
To pause from toil, and trim their evening) 



.V 



Blest that abode, where want and pai 

pair, 
And every stranger finds a ready chair; 
Blest be those feasts with simple plenty 

crown'd, 
Where all the ruddy family around 
Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, 
Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale ; 
Or press the bashful stranger to his food, 
And learn the luxury of doing good. 

But me, not destined such delights to share, 
My prime of life in wandering spent and 

care — 
Impell'd with steps unceasing to pursue 
Some fleeting good that mocks me with the 

view, 
That, like the circle bounding earth and 

skies, 
Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies — 
My fortune leads to traverse realms alone, 
And find no spot of all the world my own. 

E'en now, where Alpine solitudes ascend, 
I sit me down a pensive hour to spend ; 
And placed on high, above the storm's 

career, 
Look downward where a hundfed realms 
appear — 



THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide, 
Tlie pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler 
pride. 

When thus creation's charms around com- 
bine, 

Amidst the store should thankless pride re- 
pine? 

Say, should the philosophic mind disdain 

That good which makes each humbler bosom 
vain? 

Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can, 

These little things are great to little man ; 

.And wiser he whose sympathetic mind 

Exults in all the good of all mankind. 
' Ye glittering towns with wealth and splen- 
dor crown'd ; 

Ye fields where Summer spreads profusion 
round ; 

Ye lakes whose vessels catch the busy gale ; 

Ye bending swains that dress the flowery 
vale ; — 

For me your tributary stores combine ; 

Creation's heir, the world, the world is 
mine! 

As some lone miser, visiting his store, 
Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it 

o'er; 
Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, 
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting 

still : 
Thus to ray breast alternate passions rise, 
Pleased with each good that Heaven to man 

supplies, 
• Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall, 
To see the hoard of human bliss so small ; 
And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find 
Some spot to real happiness consign'd, 
Where my worn soul, each wandering hope 

at rest, 
May gather bliss, to see my fellows blest. 

But where to find that happiest spot be- 
Lw, 
Who can direct, when all pretend to know ? 
The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone 
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ; 
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, 
And his long nights of revelry and ease ; 
The naked negro, panting at the line, 
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine, 



Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, 
And thanks his gods for all the good they 
gave. 

Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we 

roam, 
His first best country ever is at home. 
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, 
And estimate the blessings which they share, 
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom 

find 
An equal portion dealt to all mankind ; 
As different good, by art or nature given, 
To different nations, makes their blessings 

even 



Nature, a mother kind alike to all; 

Still grants her bliss at labor's earnest call 

With food as well the peasant is supplied 

On Idra's cliff as Arno's shelvy side ; 

And though the rocky-crested summits 
frown, 

These rocks, by custom, turn to beds ot 
down. 

From art more various are the blessings 
sent — 

Wealth, commerce, honor, liberty, content ; 

Yet these each other's power so strong con- 
test, 

That either seems destructive of the rest: 

Where wealth and freedom reign, content- 
ment fails, 

And honor sinks where commerce long pre- 
vails. 

Hence every state, to one loved blessing 
prone, 

Conforms and models life to that alone ; 

Each to the favorite happiness attends ; 

And spurns the plan that aims at other 
ends — 

Till, carried to excess in each domain, 

This favorite good begets peculiar pain. 

But let us try these truths with closer 

eyes, 
And trace them through the prospect as it 

lies: 
Here, for awhile my proper cares resign'd; 
Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind; 
Like yon neglected shrub, at random cast, 
That shades the steep, and sighs at every 

blast. 






THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



Far to the right, where Apennine ascends, 
Bright as the Summer, Italy extends : 
Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side, 
Woods over woods in gay theatric pride, 
While oft some temple's mouldering tops 

between 
With venerable grandeur mark the scene. 

Could Natm-e's bounty satisfy the breast, 
The sons of Italy were surely blest. 
Whatever fruits in different climes are found, 
That proudly rise, or humbly court the 

ground — 
Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear, 
Whose bright succession decks the varied 

year — 
Whatever sweets salute the northern sky 
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die — 
These here disporting own the kindred soil, 
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil; 
While sea-born gales their gelid wings ex- 
pand 
To winnow fragrance round the smiling 
land. 

But small the bliss that sense alone be- 
stows, 
And sensual bliss is all the nation knows ; 
In florid beauty groves and fields appear — 
Man seems the only growth that dwindles 

here. 
Contrasted faults through all his manners 

reign : 
Though poor, luxurious ; though submissive, 

vain ; 
Though grave, yet trifling ; zealous, yet 

untrue ; 
And even in penance planning sins anew. 
All evils here contaminate the mind, 
That opulence departed leaves behind ; 
For wealth was theirs — nor far removed the 

date 
When commerce proudly flourish'd through 

the state. 
At her command the palace learn'd to rise, 
Again the long-fallen column sought the 



ski 



Th 



e canvas 



glow'd, beyond e'en nature warm, 
The pregnant quarry teem'd with human 

form; 
Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, 
Commerce on other shores display'd her sail, 



While naught remain'd, of all that riches 

gave, 
But towns unmann'd and lords without a 

slave — 
And late the nation found, with fruitless 

skill, 
Its former strength was but plethoric ill. 

Yet, still the loss of wealth is here sup- 
plied 
By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride : 
From these the feeble heart and long-fallen 

mind 
An easy compensation seem to find. 
Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp array'd, 
The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade ; 
Processions form'd for piety and love — 
A mistress or a saint in every grove : 
By sports like these are all their care.- be- 
guiled ; 
The sports of children satisfy the child, 
Each nobler aim represt by long control. 
Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul ; 
While low delights, succeeding fast behin . 
In happier meanness occupy the mind. 
As in those domes, where Caesars once 1 <>< • 

sway, 
Defaced by time and tottering in decay, 
There in the ruin, heedless of the dead, 
The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed ; 
And, wondering man could want the larger 

pile, 
Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile. 

My soul, turn from them, turn we to survey 
Where rougher climes a nobler race dis- 
play- 
Where the bleak Swiss their stormy man- 
sions tread, 
And force a churlish soil for scanty bread. 
No product here the barren hills afford 
But man and steel, the soldier and his 

sword ; 
No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, 
But Winter lingering chills the lap of May ; 
No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, 
But meteors glare, and stormy glooms 
invest. 

Yet still, even here, content can spread a 
charm, 
Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm. 



THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



Though poor the peasant's hut, his feasts 
though small, 

He sees his little lot the lot of all; 

Sees no contiguous palace rear its head, 

To shame the meanness of his humble shed ; 

No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal, 

To make him loathe his vegetable meal ; 

But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil, 

Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil. 

Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short re- 
pose, 

Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes ; 

With patient angle trolls the finny deep ; 

Or drives his venturous ploughshare to the 
steep ; 

Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark 
the way, 

And drags the struggling savage into day. 

At night returning, every labor sped, 

He sits him down the monarch of a shed ; 

Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round sur- 
veys 

His children's looks, that brighten at the 
blaze ; 

While his loved partner, boastful' of her 
hoard, 

Displays her cleanly platter on the board : 

And haply too some pilgrim thither led 

With many a tale repays the nightly bed. 

Thus every good his native wilds impart 
Imprints the patriot passion on his heart ; 
And e'en those hills, that round his mansion 

rise, 
Enhance the bliss his scanty fund supplies : 
Dear is that shed to which his soul con- 
forms, 
And dear that hill which lifts him to the 

storms ; 
And as a child, when scaring sounds molest, 
Clings close and closer to the mother's 

breast — 
So the loud torrent and the whirlwind's roar 
But bind him to his native mountains more. 

Such are the charms to barren states as- 
sign'd — 
Their wants but few, their wishes all con- 
fined — 
Yet let them only share the praises due, 
If few their wants, their pleasures are but 
few: 



For every want that stimulates the breast 
Becomes a source of pleasure when redress'd. 
Whence from such lands each pleasing 

science flies, 
That first excites desire, and then supplies. 
Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures 

cloy, 
To fill the languid pause with finer joy; 
Unknown those powers that raise the soul 

to flame, 
Catch every nerve and vibrate through the 

frame : 
Their level life is but a smouldering fire, 
Unquench'd by want, unfann'd by strong 

desire ; 
Unfit for raptures, or, if raptures cheer 
On some high festival of once a year, 
In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire, 
Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire. 

But not their joys alone thus coarsely 

flow, 
Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low ; 
For, as refinement stops, from sire to son, 
Unalter'd, unimproved, the manners run; 
And love's and friendship's finely pointed 

dart 
Fall blunted from each indurated heart. 
Some sterner virtues o'er the mountain's 

breast 
May sit, like falcons cowering on the nest ; 
But all the gentler morals, such as play 
Through life's more cultured walks, and 

charm the way — 
These, far dispersed, on timorous pinions fly, 
To sport and flutter in a kinder sky. 

To kinder skies, where gentler manners 
reign, 
I turn ; and France displays her bright do- 
main. 
Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease, 
Pleased with thyself, whom all the world 

can please — 
How often have I led thy sportive choir, 
With tuneless pipe beside the murmuring 

Loire ! 
Where shading elms along the margin grew, 
And, freshen'd from the wave, the zephyr 

flew ! 
And haply, though my harsh touch, falter 
ing still. 



THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



437 



But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dan- 
cer's skill — 

Yet would the village praise my wondrous 
power, 

And dance, forgetful of the noontide hour. 

Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days 

Have led their children through the mirth- 
ful maze ; 

And the gay grandsire, skill'd in gestic lore, 

Has frisk'd beneath the burden of threescore. 

So bless'd a life these thoughtless realms 
display; 
Thus idly busy rolls their world away. 
Theirs are those arts that mind to mind en- 
dear, 
For honor forms the social temper here : 
Honor, that praise which real merit gains, 
Or even imaginary worth obtains, 
Here passes current — paid from hand to hand, 
It shifts in splendid traffic round the land ; 
From courts to camps, to cottages it strays, 
And all are taught an avarice of praise — 
They please, are pleased, they give to get 

esteem, 
Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they 



But while this softer art their bliss supplies, 
It gives their follies also room to rise ; 
For praise too dearly loved, or warmly 

sought, 
Enfeebles all internal strength of thought ; 
And the weak soul, within itself unblest, 
Leans for all pleasure on another's breast. 
Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art, 
Pants for the vulgar praise which fools im- 
part ; 
Here vanity assumes her pert grimace, 
And trims her robes of frieze with copper 

lace ; 
Here beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer, 
To boast one splendid banquet once a year: 
The mind still turns where shifting fashion 

draws, 
Nor weighs the solid worth of self-applause. 

To men of other minds my fancy flies, 

Embosom'd in the deep where Holland lies. 

ilethinks her patient sons before me stand, 

Where the broad ocean leans against the 

land : 



And, sedulous to stop the coming tide, 
Lift the tall rampire's artificial pride. 
Onward, methinks, and diligently slow, 
The firm connected bulwark seems to grow, 
Spreads its long arms amidst the watery roar, 
Scoops out an ■ empire, and usurps the 

shore — 
While the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile, 
Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile 
The slow canal, the yellow blossom'd vale, 
The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, 
The crowded mart, the cultivated plain — 
A new creation rescued from his reiojn. 



Thus, while around the wave-subjected soil 
Impels the native to repeated toil, 
Industrious habits in each bosom reign, 
And industry begets a love of gain. 
Hence all the good from op'.lence that 

springs, 
With all those ills superfluous treasure 

brings, 
Are here display'd. Their much-loved 

wealth imparts 
Convenience, plenty, elegance, and arts ; 
But view them closer, craft and fraud ap 

pear, 
Even liberty itself is barter'd here. 
At gold's superior charms all freedom flies; 
The needy sell it, and the rich man buys: 
A land of tyrants, and a den of slaves, 
Here wretches seek dishonorable graves ; 
And, calmly bent, to servitude conform, 
Dull as their lakes that slumber in the storm. 

, how unlike their Belgic sires of 



old- 
Rough, poor, content, ungovernably bold, 
War in each breast, and freedom on each 

brow ; 
How much unlike the sons of Britain now ! 

Fired at the sound, my genius spreads her 

wing, 
And flies where Britain courts the western 

Spring ; 
Where lawns extend that scorn Arcadian 

pride, 
And brighter streams than famed Hydaspis 1 

glide. 



1 A river in India, now called the Jelum. 






THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



There, all around, the gentlest breezes stray; 
There gentle music melts on every spray ; 
Creation's mildest charms are there com- 
bined : 
Extremes are only in the master's mind. 
Stern o'er each bosom reason holds her state, 
With daring aims irregularly great. 
Pride in their port, defiance in their eye, 
I see the lords of human kind pass by, 
Intent on high designs — a thoughtful band, 
By forms unfashion'd, fresh from nature's 

hand, 
Fierce in their native hardiness of soul, 
True to imagined right, above control ; 
While even the peasant boasts these rights 

to scan, 
And learns to venerate himself as man. 

Thine, freedom, thine the blessings pictured 
here ; 
Thine are those charms that dazzle and en- 
dear ; 
Too blest, indeed, were such without alloy, 
But, foster'd e'en by freedom, ills annoy ; 
That independence Britons prize too high 
Keeps man from man, and breaks the social 

tie: 
The self-dependent lordlings stand alone — 
All claims that bind and sweeten life un- 
known. 
Here, by the bonds of nature feebly held, 
Minds combat minds, repelling and repelPd ; 
Ferments arise, imprison'd factions roar, 
Repress'd ambition struggles round her 

shore ; 
Till, overwrought, the general system feels 
Its motions stopp'd, or frenzy fire the wheels. 

Nor this the worst. As nature's ties de- 
cay, 
As duty, love, and honor fail to sway, 
Fictitious bonds, the bonds of wealth and 

law, 
Still gather strength, and force unwilling 

awe. 
Hence all obedience bows to these alone, 
And talent sinks, and merit weeps unknown ; 
Till time may come, when, stripp'd of all her 

charms, 
The land Of scholars, and the nurse of arms— 
Where nobk stems transmit the patriot 



Where kings have toil'd, and poets wrote 

for fame — 
One sink of level avarice shall lie, 
And scholars, soldiers, kings, unhonor'd die. 

Yet think not, thus when freedom's ills I 

state, 
I mean to flatter kings, or court the great. 
Ye powers of truth that bid my soul aspire, 
Far from my bosom drive the low desire ! 
And thou, fair freedom, taught alike to feci 
The rabble's rage and tyrant's angry steel — 
Thou transitory flower, alike undone 
By proud contempt, or favor's fostering 

sun — 
Still may thy blooms the changeful clime 

endure ! 
I only would repress them to secure; 
For just experience tells in every soil, 
That those who think must govern those 

that toil ; 
And all that freedom's highest aims can 

reach 
Is but to lay proportion'd loads on each. 
Hence, should one order disproportion^ 

grow, 
Its double weight must ruin all below. 

Oh, then, how blind to all that truth re- 
quires, 
Who think it freedom when a part aspires ! 
Calm is my soul, nor apt to rise in arms, 
Except when fast approaching danger warns ; 
But, when contending chiefs blockade the 

throne, 
Contracting regal power to stretch their 

own — 
When I behold a factious band agree 
To call it freedom when themselves ai 

free — 
Each wanton judge new penal statu 

draw, 
Laws grind the poor, and rich men rule t 

law — 
The wealth of climes, where savage nations 

roam. 
Pillaged from slaves to purchase slaves at 

home — 
Fear, pity, justice, indignation, start, 
Tear off reserve, and bare my swelling heart 
Till half a patriot, half a coward grown, 
I fly from petty tyrants to the throne. 



I 



THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



Yes, brother, curse with me that baleful 

hour 
When first ambition struck at regal power ; 
And thus, polluting honor in its source, 
Gave wealth to sway the mind with double 

force. 
Have we not seen, round Britain's peopled 

shore, 
Her useful sons exchanged for useless ore ? 
Seen all her triumphs but destruction haste, 
Like flaring tapers brightening as they 

waste ? 
Seen opulence, her grandeur to maintain, 
Lead stern depopulation in her train, 
And over fields where scatter'd hamlets 

rose, 
In barren solitary pomp repose ? 
Have we not seen, at pleasure's lordly call, 
The smiling long-frequented village fall ? 
Beheld the duteous son, the sire decay'd, 
The modest matron and the blushing maid, 
Forced from their homes, a melancholy train, 
To traverse climes beyond the western 

main — 
Where wild Oswego 1 spreads her swamps 

around, 
And Niagara stuns with thundering sound ? 

Even now, perhaps, as there some pilgrim 
strays 
Through tangled forests and through dan- 
gerous ways, 
Where beasts with man divided empire 

claim, 
And the brown Indian marks with murder- 
ous aim — 
There, while above the giddy tempest flies, 
And all around distressful yells arise — 
The pensive exile, bending with his woe, 
To stop too fearful, and too faint to go, 
Casts a long look where England's glories 

shine, 
And bids his bosom sympathize with mine. 

^ain, very vain, my weary search to find 
That bliss which only centres in the mind. 
Why have I stray'd from pleasure and re- 
pose, 
To seek a good each government bestows ? 
In every government, though terrors reign, 



1 Oswego, a river of N. America r 



: into Lake Ontario. 



Though tyrant kings or tyrant laws restrain, 
How small, of all that human hearts endure, 
That part which laws or kings can cause or 

cure ! 
Still to ourselves in every place consign'd, 
Our own felicity we make or find. 
With secret course, which no loud storms 

annoy, 
Glides the smooth current of domestic joy; 
The lifted axe, the agonizing wheel, 
Zeck's iron crown, and Damiens" bed of 

steel, 
To men remote from power but rarely 

known — 
Leave reason, faith, and conscience, all oar 



THE HERMIT. 

"Tukn, gentle Hermit of the dale, 
And guide my lonely way 

To where yon taper cheers the vale 
With hospitable ray. 

For here, forlorn and lost, 1 tread, 
With fainting steps and slow, 

Where wilds, immeasurably spread, 
Seem lengthening as I go." 

"Forbear, my son," the Hermit cries, 
" To tempt the dangerous gloom ; 

For yonder faithless phantom flies 
To lure thee to thy doom. 

Here, to the houseless child of want 

My door is open still ; 
And, though my portion is but scant, 

I give it with good will. 

Then turn to-night, and freely share 
Whate'er my cell bestows — 

My rushy couch and frugal fare, 
My blessing and repose. 

No flocks that range the valley free, 
To slaughter I condemn — 



1 George and Luke Zeck headed an insurrectio 
1514 ; George usurped the sovereignty, and was punished by 
a red-hot iron crown. Damiens, who attempted the assassi- 
nation of Louis XV. of France, in 1757. was tortured to death 



THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



Taught by that Power that pities me, 
I learn to pity them. 

Eut from the mountain's grassy side 

A guiltless feast I bring ; 
A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, 

And water from the spring. 

Then, pilgrim, turn ; thy cares forego, — 
All earth-born cares are wrong : 

Man wants but little here below, 
Nor wants that little long." 

Soft as the dew from heaven descends, 

His gentle accents fell; 
The modest stranger lowly bends, 

And follows to the cell. 

Far, in a wilderness obscure, 

The lonely mansion lay, — 
A refuge to the neighboring poor, 

And strangers led astray. 

No stores beneath its humble thatch 

Required a master's care; 
The wicket, opening with a latch, 

Received the harmless pair. 

And now, when busy crowds retire 

To take their evening rest, 
The Hermit trimm'd his little fire, 

And cheer'd his pensive guest ; 

And spread his vegetable store, 
And gayly press'd and smiled; 

And, skill'd in legendary lore, 
The lingering hours beguiled. 

Around, in sympathetic mirth 

Its tricks the kitten tries, — 
The cricket chirrups in the hearth, 

The crackling fagot flies. 

But, nothing could a charm impart 
To soothe the stranger's woe — 

For grief was heavy at his heart, 
And tears began to flow. 

His rising cares the Hermit spied — 
With answering care oppress'd ; 

" And whence, unhappy youth," he cried, 
" The sorrows of thy breast ? 



From better habitations spurn'd, 

Reluctant dost thou rove? 
Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, 

Or unregarded love ? 

Alas, the joys that fortune brings 

Are trifling, and decay ; 
And those who prize the paltry things 

More trifling still than they. 

And what is friendship but a name, 

A charm that lulls to sleep — 
A shade that follows wealth or fame, 

And leaves the wretch to weep ? 

And love is still an emptier sound — 

The modern fair one's jest ; 
On earth unseen, or only found 

To warm the turtle's nest. 

For shame, fond youth, thy sorrowt hush, 

And spurn the sex," he said ; 
But, while he spoke, a rising blush 

His love-lorn guest betray' d : 

Surprised, he sees new beauties rise, 
Swift mantling to the view — 

Like colors o'er the morning skies, 
As bright, as transient too. 

The bashful look, the rising breast, 

Alternate spread alarms: 
The lovely stranger stands confest, 

A maid in all her charms. 

" And, ah ! forgive a stranger rude, 
A wretch forlorn," she cried — 

" Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude 
"Where heaven and you reside. 

But let a maid thy pity share, 
Whom love has taught to stray — 

Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 
Companion of her way. 

My father lived beside the Tyne — 

A wealthy lord was he ; 
And all his wealth was mark'd as mine : 

He had but only me. 

To win me from his tender arms 
Unnumber'd suitors came ; 



THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



Who praised me for imputed charms, 


" Turn, Angelina, ever dear — 


And felt or feign'd a flame. 


My charmer, turn to see 




Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, 


Each hour a mercenary crowd 


Restored to love and thee. 


With richest proffers strove ; 




Among the rest young Edwin bow'd — 


Thus let me hold thee to my heart, 


But never talk'd of love. 


And every care resign : 




And shall we never, never part, 


In humble simplest habit clad, 


My life — my all that's mine ? 


No wealth or power had he ; 




Wisdom and worth were all he had, 


No ; never, from this hour to part, 


But these were all to me. 


We'll live and love so true — 




The sigh that rends thy constant heart 


And when beside me in the dale 


Shall break thy Edwin's too." 


He caroll'd lays of love, 




His breath lent fragrance to the gale, 




And music to the grove. 




The blossom opening to the day, 




The dews of heaven refined, 




Could naught of purity display 


THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION. 


To emulate his mind. 


A TALE. 


The dew, the blossoms of the tree, 


Secluded from domestic strife, 


With charms inconstant shine : 


Jack Bookworm led a college life ; 


Their charms were his ; but, woe to me, 


A fellowship, at twenty-five, 


Their constancy was mine. 


Made him the happiest man alive ; 




He drank his glass, and crack'd his joke, 


For still I tried each fickle art, 


And freshmen wonder'd as he spoke. 


Importunate and vain; 




And while his passion touch'd my heart, 


Such pleasures, unalloy'd with care, 


I triumph'd in his pain. 


Could any accident impair ? 




Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix 


Till, quite dejected with my scorn, 


Our swain, arrived at thirty-six ? 


He left me to my pride ; 


Oh, had the archer ne'er come down 


And sought a solitude forlorn 


To ravage in a country town ! 


In secret, where he died. 


Or Flavia been content to stop 




At triumphs in a Fleet-street shop ! 


But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, 


Oh, had her eyes forgot to blaze, 


And well my life shall pay; 


Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze ! 


I'll seek the solitude he sought, 


Oh ! — But let exclamation cease; 


And stretch me where he lay. 


Her presence banish'd all his peace : 




So with decorum all things carried, 


And there, forforn, despairing, hid, 


Miss frown'd and blush'd, and then w*8 — 


I'll lay me down and die : 


married. 


'Twas so for me that Edwin did, 




And so for him will I." 


Need we expose to vulgar sight 




The raptures of the bridal night ? 


" Forbid it, heaven !" the Hermit cried, 


Need we intrude on hallow'd ground, 


And clasp'd her to his breast: 


Or draw the curtains closed around ? 


The wondering fair one turn'd to chide — 


Let it suffice, that each had charms : 


'Twas Edwin's self that prest. 


He clasp'd a goddess in his arms ; 



THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



And though she felt his usage rough, 
Yet in a man 'twas well enough. 

The honeymoon like lightning flew; 
The second brought its transports too ; 
A third, a fourth, were not amiss ; 
The fifth was friendship mix'd with bliss; 
But, when a twelvemonth pass'd away, 
Jack found his goddess made of clay; 
Found half the charms that deck'd her face 
Arose from powder, shreds, or lace ; 
But still the worst remain'd behind — 
That very face had robb'd her mind. 

Skill'd in no other arts was she 
But dressing, patching, repartee ; 
And, just as humor rose or fell, 
By turns a slattern or a belle. 
'Tis true, she dress'd with modern grace — 
Half-naked at a ball or race ; 
But when at home, at board or bed, 
Plve greasy nightcaps wrapp'd her head. 
Could so much beauty condescend 
To be a dull domestic friend? 
Could any curtain-lectures bring 
To decency so fine a thing ? 
In short — by night 'twas tits or fretting, 
By day 'twas gadding or coquetting. 
Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy 
Of powder'd coxcombs at her levee; 
The squire and captain took their stations, 
And twenty other near relations. 
Jack suck'd his pipe, and often broke 
A sigh in suffocating smoke ; 
While all their hours were pass'd between 
Insulting repartee or spleen. 

Thus, as her faults each day were known, 
He thinks her features coarser grown ; 
He fancies every vice she shows 
Or thins her lip or points her nose; 
Whenever rage or envy rise, 
How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes ! 
He knows not how, but so it is, 
Her face is grown a knowing phiz ; 
And, though her fops are wondrous civil, 
He thinks her ugly as the devil. 

Now, to perplex the ravell'd noose, 
As each a different way pursues — 
While sullen or loquacious strife 
Promised to hold them on for life — 



That dire disease, whose ruthless power 
Withers the beauty's transient flower — 
Lo, the small-pox, whose horrid glare 
Levell'd its terrors at the fair, 
And, rifling every youthful grace, 
Left but the remnant of a face. 

The glass, grown hateful to her sight, 
Reflected now a perfect fright. 
Each former art she vainly tries 
To bring back lustre to her eyes ; 
In vain she tries her paste and creams 
To smooth her skin, or hide its seams: 
Her country beaux and city cousins, 
Lovers no more, flew off by dozens ; 
The squire himself was seen to yield, 
And even the captain quit the field. 

Poor madam, now condemn'd to hack 
The rest of life with anxious Jack, 
Perceiving others fairly flown, 
Attempted pleasing him alone. 
Jack soon was dazzled to behold 
Her present face surpass the old. 
With modesty her cheeks are dyed ; 
Humility displaces pride ; 
For tawdry finery is seen 
A person ever neatly clean ; 
3STo more presuming on her sway, 
She learns good-nature every day : 
Serenely gay, and strict in duty, 
Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty. 



STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF 
QUEBEC. 

Amidst the clamor of exulting joys, 

Which triumph forces from the patriot 
heart, 
Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice, 
And quells the raDtures which from pleas- 
ures start. 

Oh, Wolfe, to thee a streaming flood of woe, 

Sighing, we pay, and think e'en conquest 

dear ; 

Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow, 

Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart- wrung 

tear. 



THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



Alive the foe thy dreadful vigor fled, 
And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing 
eyes : 
Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though 
dead! 
Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes 



EPITAPH ON EDWARD PTTRDON. 



[This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin ; 
but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot-soldier ; 
jrrowin,? tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, 
ind became a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated 
Voltaire'u Henrtade.] 



Here lies poor Ned Pnrdon, from misery 

freed, 
Who long was a booksellei-'s hack ; 
He led such a damnable life in this world, 
I don't think he'll wish to come back. 



STANZAS ON WOMAN. 

WiaEN lovely woman stoops to folly, 
And finds too late that men betray, 

What charm can soothe her melancholy, 
What art can wash her guilt away ? 

The only art her guilt to cover, 
To hide her shame from every eye, 

To give repentance to her lover, 
And wring his bosom, is — to die. 



AN ELEGY ON THE GLORY OF HER 
SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE. 

Good people all, with one accord, 
Lament for Madam Blaize, 

Who never wanted a good word — 
From those who spoke her praise 



The needy seldom pass'd her door. 
And always found her kind ; 

She freely lent to all the poor — 
Who left a pledge behind. 

She strove the neighborhood to please, 
With manners wondrous winning ; 

And never follow'd wicked ways — 
Unless when she was sinning. 

At church, in silks and satins new, 
With hoop of monstrous size, 

She never slumber'd in her pew — 
But when she shut her eyes. 

Her love was sought, I do aver, 
By twenty beaux and more ; 

The king himself has follow'd her — 
When she has walk'd before. 

But now her wealth and finery fled, 
Her hangers-on cut short all ; 

The doctors found, when she was dead — 
Her last disorder mortal. 

Let us lament, in sorrow sore, 
For Kent-street well may say, 

That had she lived a twelvemonth more- 
She had not died to-day. 



EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL. 

This tomb, inscribed to gentle Parn ell's 
name, 

May speak our gratitude, butfnot his fame. 

What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay, 

That leads to truth through pleasure's flow- 
ery way ? 

Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid ; 

And heaven, that lent him genius, was re- 
paid. 

Needless to him the tribute we bestow, 

The transitory breath of fame below : 

More lasting rapture from his work shall 
rise, 

While converts thank their poet in the skies- 



THE POEMS OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 



A PROLOGUE, 

WBITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE POET LABE- 

BIUS, A ROMAN KNIGHT, WHOM CfiSAR 

FORCED UPON THE STAGE. 

(PKE8EBTKD BY MACBOBITJS.) 

What! no way left to shun th' inglorious 

stage, 
And save from infamy my sinking age ? 
Scarce half alive, oppress'd with many a 

year, 
What, in the name of dotage, drives me 

here? 
A time there was, when glory was my guide, 
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps 

aside ; 
Unawed by power, and unappall'd by fear, 
With honest thrift I held my honor dear: 
But this vile hour disperses all my store, 
And all my hoard of honor is no more; 
For, ah ! too partial to my life's decline, 
Caesar persuades, submission must be mine ; 
Him I obey, whom heaven itself obeys, 
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclined to please. 
Here then at once I welcome every shame, 
And cancel at threescore a life of fame ; 
No more my titles shall my children tell, 
The old buffoon will fit my name as well : 
This day beyond its term my fate extends, 
For life is ended when our honor ends. 



EPILOGUE TO THE COMEDY OF 
"SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER." 

Well, having Stooped to Conquer with suc- 
cess, 

And gain'd a husband without aid from 
dress, 

Still, as a bar-maid, I could wish it too, 

As I have conquer' d him, to conquer you : 



And let me say, for all your resolution, 
That pretty bar-maids have done execution. 
Our life is ail a play, composed to please, 
" We have our exits and our entrances." 
The first act shows the simple country maid, 
Harmless and young, of every thing afraid ; 
Blushes when hired, and with unmeaning 

action, 
" I hope as how to give you satisfaction." 
Her second act displays a livelier scene — 
Th' unblushing bar-maid of a country inn, 
Who whisks about the house, at market 

caters, 
Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds 

the waiters. 
Next the scene shifts to town, and there she 

soars, 
The chop-house toasts of ogling connoisseurs. 
On squires and cits she there displays her 

arts, 
And on the gridiron broils her lovers' hearts : 
And as she smiles, her triumphs to complete, 
Even common-councilmen forget to eat. 
The fourth act shows her wedded to the 

squire, 
And madam now begins to hold it higher; 
Dotes upon dancing, and in all her pride 
Swims round the room the Heinelle of 

Cheapside ; 
Ogles and leers with artificial skill, 
Till having lost in age the power to kill, 
She sits all night at cards, and ogles at 

Spadille. 
Such, through our lives, the eventful history: 
The fifth and last act still remains for me. 
The bar-maid now for your protection prays, 
Turns female barrister, and pleads for bays. 



EMMA. 



In all my Emma's beauties blest, 
Amidst profusion still I pine ; 

For though she gives me up her brea*t, 
Its panting tenant 's not mine 



THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. 



SONG. 

Love laid down his golden head 

On his mother's knee ; — 
" The world runs round so fast," he said, 

" None has time for me." 

Thought, a sage unhonor'd, turn'd 

From the on-rushing crew; 
Song her starry legend spurn'd ; 

Art her glass down threw. 

Roll on, blind world, upon thy track 
Until thy wheels catch fire ! 

For that is gone which comes not back 
To seller nor to buyer ! 



CREEP SLOWLY UP THE WILLOW- 
WAND. 

Cbeep slowly up the willow-wand, 
Young leaves ; and in your lightness 

Teach us that spirits which despond 
May wear their own pure brightness ! 

Into new sweetness slowly dip, 
O May ! advance, yet linger ; 

Nor let the ring too swiftly slip 
Down that new-plighted finger ! 

Thy bursting blooms, O Spring, retard: — 
While thus thy raptures press on, 

How many a joy is lost or marr'd, 
How many a lovely lesson ! 



For each new grace conceded, those 

The earlier-loved are taken ; 
In death their eyes must violets close 

Before the rose can waken. 

Ye woods with ice-threads tingling late, 
Where late we heard the robin, 

Your chants that hour but antedate 
When autumn winds are sobbing. 

Ye gummy buds in silken sheath, 
Hang back content to glisten ! 

Hold in, O Earth, thy charmed breath ; 
Thou air, be still, and listen ! 



SPENSER. 



One peaceful spot in a storm-vex'd isle 
Shall wear forever the past's calm smile: — 
Kilcoleman Castle ! There Spenser sate ; 
There sang, unweeting of coming fate. 

The song he sang was a life-romance 
Woven by Virtues in mystic dance, 
Where the gods and the heroes of Grecian 

story 
Themselves were virtues in allegory. 

True love was in it, but love sublimed, 
Occult, high-reason'd, bewitch'd, be-rhymed ! 
The knight was the servant of ends trans- 
human, 
The women were seraphs, the bard half 



THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. 



Time and its tumults, stern shocks, hearts 

wrung, 
To him were mad words to sweet music sung, 
History to him an old missal quaint 
Border'd round with gold angel and azure 

saint. 

Creative indeed was that eye, sad Mary, 
That hail'd in thy rival a queen of faery, 
And in Raleigh, half statesman, half pirate, 

could see 
But the shepherd of ocean's green Arcady. 

'Under groves of Penshurst his first notes 

rang: 
As Sidney lived so his Spenser sang. 
From the well-head of Chaucer one stream 

found birth, 
Like an Arethusa, on Irish earth. 

Prom the court he had fled, and the courtly 

lure : — 
One virgin muse in an age not pure 
Wore Florimel's girdle, and mourn'd in song 
(Disguised as Irena's) Ierne's wrong. 1 

Roll onward, thou western Ilyssus, roll, 
"Mulla," far kenn'd by "old mountain 

Mole !" 
With thy Shepherds a Calidore loved to 

dwell ; 
And beside him an Irish Pastorel. 

Dead are the wild-flowers she flung on thy 

tide, 
Bending over thee, giftless — that well-sung 

bride :" 
The flowers have pass'd by, but abideth the 

river ; 
And the genius that hallow'd it haunts it 

forever. 



HOLY CROSS ABBEY. 

Not dead, but living still and militant, 
With things dead-doom'd wrestling in con- 
quering war, 



1 Fairy Queen, Book V. Canto i. 
> " Song made in lieu of many ornaments. 
JSpithalamion. 



More free for chains, more fair for every s^nr, 
How well, huge pile, that forehead gray uud 

gaunt 
Thou lift'st our world of fleeting shapes to 

daunt ! 
The past in thee surviveth petrified : 
Like some dead tongue art thou, some 

tongue that died 
To live ; — for prayer reserved, of flatteries 

scant. 
The age of Sophists takes on thee no hold : 
From thine ascetic breast the hollow jibe 
Falls flat, and cavil of the blustering scribe: 
Thine endless iron winter mocks the gold 
Of our brief autumns. God hath press'd on 

thee 
The impress of His own eternity. 



SELF-DECEPTION 



Like mist it tracks us wheresoe'er we go, 
Like air bends with us ever as we bend ; 
And, as the shades at noontide darkest grow, 
With grace ascending it too can ascend : 
Weakness with virtue skill'd it is to blend, 
Breed baser life from buried sins laid low, 
Empty our world of God and good, yet lend 
The spirit's waste a paradisal glow. 
O happy children simple even in wiles ! 
And ye of single eye thrice happy poor ! 
Practised self-love, the cheat which slaye 

with smiles, 
Weaves not for you the inevitable lure. 
Men live a lie : — specious their latest 

breath : — 
Welcome, delusion-slayer, truthful Death ! 



OUR KINGS SAT OF OLD LN EMANL\ 
AND TARA 

Oue kings sat of old in Emania and Tara : — 
Those new kings whence are they ? Their 
names are unknown ! 
Our saints lie entomb'd in Ardmagh and 
Cilldara; 
Their relics are healing ; their graves are 
grass-grown. 



THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE 



447 



■Our princes of old, when their warfare was 
over, 
As pilgrims forth wander'd; as hermits 
found rest: — 
Shall the hand of the stranger their ashes 
uncover 
In Bennchor the holy, in Aran the blest ? ' 



2Jot so, by the race our Dalriada planted ! — 
In Alba were children ; we sent her a 



1 There is no other example of a nation devoting itself to 
-spiritual things with an ardor and a success comparable to 
that which distinguished Ireland. During the first three cen- 
turies after her conversion to Christianity she resembled one 
yast monastery. Statements so extraordinary that if they 
•came from Irish sources they might be supposed to have 
■originated in national vanity, have reached us in such num- 
bers from the records of those foreign nations under whose 
■altars the relics of Irish saints and founders repose, that upon 
this point there remains no difference of opinion among the 
learned. For ordinary readers the subject is sufficiently 
Illustrated in the more recent Irish histories. Mr. Moore 
remarks (Hist, of Ireland, vol i. p. 27(i) : "In order to convey 
to the reader any adequate notion of the apostolic labors of 
that great crowd of learned missionaries whom Ireland sent 
foi th , in the course of this century, to all parts of Europe, it 
would, be necessary to transport him to the scenes of their 
respective missions ; to point out the difficulties they had to 
encounter, and the admirable patience and courage with 
which they surmounted them ; to show how inestimable 
was the service they rendered, during that dark period, by 
•keeping the dying embers of learning awake, and how grate- 
fully their names are enshrined in the records of foreign lands, 
though but faintly, if at all. remembered in their own, win- 
Tiing for her that noble title of the " island of the holy and the 
learned,' which throughout the night that overhung the rest 
of Europe she so long and bo proudly wore. Thus the labors 
of the great missionary, St. Columhanus, were after his death 
still vigorously carried on, both in France and Italy, by those 
disciples who had accompanied or joined him from -Ireland ; 
and his favorite Gallus. to whom in dying he bequeathed his 
pastoral staff, became the founder of an abbey in Switzerland, 
which was in the thirteenth century erected into a princedom, 
while the territory belonging to it, through al! changes, bore 
the name of St. Gall. * * * This pious Irishman has been 
called, by a foreign martyrologist, the apostle of the Allema- 
nian nation. Another disciple and countryman of St. Colum- 
banus, named Deicola. or in Irish Dichuill, enjoyed like his 
■master the patronage and friendship of the monarch Clotaire 
n., who endowed the monastic establishment formed by him 
at Luthra with considerable grants of land." 

He proceeds to enumerate many other monuments of early 
Irish devotion, as the tomb of the Irish priest Caidoc, in the 
monastery of Oentula in Ponthieu, and the hermitage of St. 
Fiacre, to which Anne of Austria, in the year 1641, made her 
pilgrimage on foot. He records the labors of St. Fursa 
among the East Angles, and afterward in France, and of his 
brothers TJltan and Foillan in Brabant ; of St. Livin in Ghent ; 
of St. Fridolin beside the Rhine. He refers to the two Irish- 
men successively bishops of Strasburg, St. Arbogast, and St. 
Elorentius ; to the two brothers Erard and Albeit, whose 
tombs were long shown at Ratisbon ; to St. Wiro, to whom 
Pepin used to confess, barefooted ; to St. Kilian, the great 
apostle of Franconia, who consummated his labors by martyr- 
dom, and who is still honored at Wurtzburg as its patron 
■saint. He proceeds to commemorate Cataldus, patron of 
Tarenlum, and at on< period an ornament of the celebrated 



Battles won in Argyle in Dunedin they 
chanted : 
King Kenneth completed what Fergus 
began. 
Our name is her name : she is Alba no 
longer : 
Her kings are our blood, and she crowns 
them at Scone : 
Strong-hearted they are ; and strong-handed ; 
but stronger 
When throned on our Lia Fail, Destiny's 
stone ! 



school of Lismore, and Virgilius, or Feargal, denounced to the 
Pope by Boniface as a heretic for having anticipated at that 
early period the discovery of the "antipodes," and main- 
tained " that there was another world, and other men under 
the earth." This great man propagated the Gospel among 
the Carinthians. He then records the selection by Charle- 
magne of two Irishmen, Clement and Albinus, one of whom ho 
placed at the head of a seminary founded by him in France, 
while the other presided over a similar institution at Pavia ; 
a third Irishman, Dungal, being especially consulted by the 
same prince on account of his astronomical knowledge. This 
celebrated teacher carried on a controversy with Claudius 
Bishop of Turin, who had revived the heterodox opinions ot 
Vigilantius against the veneration of the saints. He be- 
queathed to the monastery ofBobiohis library, the greater 
part of which is still preserved at Milan. 

Mr. Moore next illustrates the remarkable knowledge of 
Greek possessed by the early Irish ecclesiastics, a circum- 
stance accounted for by the fact that the fame of the Irish 
churches and schools had attracted many Greeks to Ireland. 
Advancing to the ninth century he records Sedulius and Do- 
natus, the former of whom had become so celebrated from his 
writings that the Pope created him Bishop of Oreto, and de- 
spatched him to Spain in order that he might compose the 
differences which had arisen among the clergy there, while 
the latter was made Bishop of Fiesole. Of his writings noth- 
ing remains except the Latin verses in which he celebrates 
his native land under its early name of Scotia. 

" Finibus occiduis describitur optima tellus 
Nomine et antiquis Scotia dicta libris. 
Insula dives opum, gemmarnm, vestis et auri : 
Commoda corporibns, aere, sole, solo," &c. 

He next gives an account of the far-famed John Scotns 
Erigena, and remarks upon the influence of the early Irish 
writers on the scholastic philosophy.— (Moore's History, vol. 
i. pp. 976-307.) From the latter part of the fifth century to the 
latter part of the eighth was Ireland's golden age. The 
Danish invasions reduced her to the comparatively low 
condition in which she was found by the Normans in the 
twelfth. 

The progress of Ireland's Christianity is briefly but com- 
prehensively narrated also in Mr. Haverty's recent History cf 
Ireland, Farrell & Son:— "Among the great ecck-siasiical 
schools or monasteries founded in Ireland about this time 
(the fifth century), were those of St. Ailbe of Emly, of St. 
Benignns of Armagh, of St. Fiech of Sletty. of St. Mel of 
Ardagh, of St. Mochay of Antrim, of St. Moctheus of Louth, 
of St. Ibar of Beg-Erin, of St. Asicus of Elphin, and of St. 
©lean of Derkan."— P. 75. " * * * The most celebrated of 
them, fonnded early in the sixth century, were Clonard in 
Meath founded by St. Finan or Finian ; Clonmacnoise, on the 
banks of the Shannon, in the King's county, founded in the 
same century by St. Kiaran, called the Carpenter's Son ; 
Bennchor, or Bangor, in the Ards of Ulster, founded by St. 
Oomgall in the year 558. and Lismore in Wftferford, founded 
by St. Carthach. or Mochuda, about th i year 633, Tl se a" i 



THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERB. 



THE MALISON. 

The Curse of that land which in ban and in 
blessing 
Hath puissance, through prayer and 
through penance alight 
On the False One who whisper'd, the traitor's 
hand pressing, 
"I ride without guards in the morning, — 
good-night !" 
O beautiful serpent! O woman fiend- 
hearted ! 
Wife false to O'Ruark ! queen base to thy 
trust ! 
The glory of ages forever departed 

That hour from the isle of the saintly and 
just. 



The Curse of that land on the monarchs dis- 
loyal, 
Who welcomed the invader, and knelt at 
his knee ! 
False Derraod, false Donald — the chieftains 
once royal 
Of the Deasies and Ossory, cursed let 
them be ! 
Their name>an oft their shame make eternal. 
Engrave them 
On the cliff's which the great billows buffet 
and stain : 
Like billows the nations, when tyrants en- 
slave them, 
Swell up in their fury — not always in vain ! 



many other Irish schools attracted a vast concourse of stu- 
dentB, the pnpils of a single school ofien numbering from one 
to three thousand, several of whom came from Britain, Gaul, 
and other countries, drawn thither by the reputation for sanc- 
tity and learning which Ireland enjoyed throughout Europe." 
—P. 87. " * * * Scarcely an island round the coast, or in the 
»akes of the interior, or a valley, or any solitary spot, could be 
found which, like the deserts of Egypt and Palestine, was not 
inhabited by fervent ccenobites and anchorites."— P. 88. After 
various quotations from eminent foreign authorities, as Erie of 
Auxerre, and Tierry. Mr. Haverty proceeds :— ■' Stephen White 
(Apologia, p. 24) thus sums up the labors of the Irish saints on 
the continent:— 'Among the names of saints wl.om Ireland 
formerly sent forth there were, as I have learned from the 
.rnstworthy writings of the ancients, 150 now honored as pa- 
trons of places in Germany, of whom 3fi were martyrs ; 45 Irish 
patrons in the Gauls, of whom 6 were martyrs ; at least 30 in 
Belgium ; 44 in England ; 13 in Italy ; and in Norway and Ice- 
land 8 martyrs, besides many others.' It has been calculated 
that the ancient Irish monks had 13 monastic foundations in 
Scotland, 12 in England, 7 in France, 12 in Armoric Ganl, 7 in 
Lotharingia, 11 in Burgundy, 9 in Belgium, 10 in Alsatia, 16 in 
Bavaria, 6 in Italy, and 15 in Rhetia, Helvetia, and Suavia, be- 



But praise in the churches, and worship and 
honor 
To him who, betray'd and deserted, fought 
on! 
All praise to King Roderick, the prince of 
Clan Connor, 
The king of all Erin, and Cathall his son! 
May the million-voiced chant that in end- 
less expansion 
Sweeps onward through heaven his praises 
prolong ; 
May the heaven of heavens this night be the 
mansion 
Of the good king who died in the cloisters 
of Cong! 



HYMN, 

ON THE FOUNDING OF THE ABBEY OF ST. 

THOMAS 1HE MARTYR (a. BECKEf), 

IN DUBLIN, A. D. 1177. 

"The celebrated Abbey of St. Thomas the Martyr waa 
founded in Dublin by Fitz-Adelm, by order of Henry Second. 
The site was the place now called Thomas' Conrt. In the 
presence of Cardinal Vivian and St. Laurence O'Toole the 
deputy endowed it with a carucate of land called Donore." 
Hateett's Hist, of Ireland, Farrell & Son's edition, 205. 



Rejoice, thou race of man, rejoice ! 

To-day the Church renews her boast 
Of England's Thomas ; and her voice 

Is echo'd by the heavenly host. 



sides many in Tharingia, and on the left margin ol the Rhine 
between Gueldres and Alsatia."— Note, p. 103. Evan after the 
Danish invasion Ireland continued to found her religions es- 
tablishments in foreign countries: — "A few Irish monks 
settled at Glastonbury, and for their support began to teach 
the rudiments of sacred and secular knowledge. One of the 
earliest and most illustrious of their pupils was the great St. 
Dunstan, who, under the tuition of these Irishmen became 
skilful in philosophy, mu6ic, and other accomplishments. 
* * * St. Cadroc, the son of a king of the Albanian Scoti, wa« 
at the same time in Ireland, studying in the schools of 
Armagh." — P. 144. Mr. Haverty gives also an interesting 
account of the Culdees of Ireland, "religions persons resem- 
bling very much members of the tertiary orders of St. Dominic 
and St. Francis in the Catholic Church at the present day, or 
one of the great religious confraternities of modern times."— 
P. 105. He also explains those abuses, the cause of so mnch 
misconception, by which the great chiefs occasionally usurped 
and transmitted, though not in holy orders, the titles and es- 
tates of the richer bishoprics, the spiritual duties of whlefc 
were vicariously discharged by churchmen, as has happened 
more frequently at a later time in the case of paiishes appro- 
priated by lay rectors. 



THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. 



449 



Rejoice, whoever loves the right ; 

Rejoice, ye faithful men and true : 
The Prince of Peace o'errules the fight ; 

The many fall before the few. 



Behold a great high priest with rays 

Of martyrdom's red sunset crown'd ! 
No other like him in the days 

Wherein he trod the earth was found. 
The swords of men unholy met 

Above him clashing, and he bled : 
But God, the God he served, hath set 

A wreath unfading on his head. 



Great is the priestly charge, and great 
The line to whom that charge is given ! 

It comes not, that pontificate, 

Save from the great Hiarh Priest in 



A frowning king no equal brook'd : — 
" Obey," he cried, " my will, or die." 

Thomas, like Stephen, heavenward look'd 
And saw the Son of Man on high. 



1 Nuad " of the Silver Hand" was the leader of the Tuatha 
de Danann who are said by the hards to have landed in Ire- 
land a. M. 3303, i. e. according to the chronology of the Septu- 
agint, adopted by the Four Masters. Eochy, the last of the 
Firholgic kings, was slain by them ; and a cairn still shown 
on the seacoast near Sligo is said to be his grave. The first 
proceeding of the invaders was to burn their fleet, so as to 
render retreat impossible. u According to the superstitious 
ideas of the hards these Tuatha de Danann were profoundly 
skilled in magic, and rendered themselves invisible to the in- 
habitants until they had penetrated into the heart of the 
country. In other words, they landed under the cover of a 
fog or mist ; and the Firbolgs, at first taken by surprise, made 
no regular stand, until the new-comers had marched almost 
across Ireland, when the two armies met face to face on the 
plain of Moyturey, near the shore of Lough Corrib, in part of 
the ancient territory of Partry. Here a battle was fought, in 
which the Firbolgs were overthrown, 'with the greatest 
slaughter,' says an old writer, ' that was ever heard of in Ire- 
land at one meeting.' * * * The scattered fragments of his 
(Eochy's) army took refuge in the nothern isle of Aran, Rath- 
lin Island, the Hebrides, the Isle of Man, and Britain."— Far- 
rell & Son's Haveety's Ireland, p. 12. "The victorious 
Nuad lost his hand iu this battle, and a silver hand was made 
for him by Credne Cerd, the artificer, and fitted on him by 
the Physician Diencecht, whose son, Miach, improved the 
work, according to the legend, by infusing feeling and motion 
into every joint of the artificial hand, as if it had been a nat- 
ural one."— Farrell & Son's Haveety's Hist, of Ireland, p. 13. 
Twenty-seven years later Nuad was killed in battle by 
Balor "of the mighty blows," a Fomorian. The sway of the 
Tuatha de Danann is said to have lasted for 197 years, when it 
was terminated by the immigration of the Milesian race. 
Farrell & Son's Haveett's Ireland, p. 13. Dr. O'Donovan 
says (Four Masters, vol. i. p. 24) : — u From the many monu- 
ments ascribed to this colony by tradition, and in ancient 
Irish historical tales, it is quite evident that they were a real 
people : and from their having been considered gods and ma- 



Blest is the People, blest and strong, 

That 'mid its pontiffs counts a saint J 
His virtuous memory lasting long 

Shall keep its altars pure from taint. 
The heathen plot, the tyrants rage; 

But in their Saint the poor shall find 
A shield, or after many an age 

A light restored to guide the blind. 

Thus with expiatory rite 

The Roman priest and Laurence sang, 
And loud the regal towers that night 

With music and with feasting rang. 



DEAD IS THE PRINCE OF THE 
SILVER HAND. 1 
i. 
Dead is the Prince of the Silver Hand, 

And dead Eochy the son of Ere ! 
Ere lived Milesius they ruled the land 

Thou hast ruled and lost in turn, O'Ruark ! 



gicians by the Gaedhil, or Scoti, who Bubdued them, it maybe 
inferred that they were skilled in arts which the latrer did not 
understand. * * * It appears from a very curious and ancient 
Irish tract, written in the shape of a dialogue between St. 
Patrick and Caoilte MacHonain, that there were very many 
places in Ireland where the Tuatha de Danann were then 
supposed to live as sprites or fairies, with corporeal and ma- 
terial forms, but endued with immortality. The inference 
naturally to be drawn from these stories is that the Tuatha de 
Danann lingered in the country for many centuries after their 
subjection by the Gaedhil, and that they lived in retired 
situations, where they practised abstruse arts, which induced 
the others to regard them as magicians." 

The Tuatha de Danann are chiefly remembered in connec- 
tion with two circumstances. They are asserted to have 
carried into Ireland the far-famed "LiaFail," or "Stone of 
Destiny," on which the kings of Ireland were crowned for 
ages, and which was afterward said to have been removed to 
Scone in Scotland; and they gave Ireland her name. The 
throe names by which Ireland was called in early years, Eire, 
Banba, and Fodhla, were assigned to her in consequence of 
their belonging to the wives of the three last kings of the 
Tuatha de Danann race, each of whom reigned successively 
during a single year. These three queens were slain in the 
battle fought by the Milesians against the Tuatha de Danann 
at Tailtinn, or Teltovvn, in Meath ; the Irish queens beins 
accustomed in the Pagan times to lead their armies to battle. 
The Tuatha de Dananns seem to have easily kept the Firbolgs, 
a pastoral people, in subjection, being, though inferior to 
them in numbers, far superior in civilization. "It. is proba- 
ble," says Mr. Haverty, " that by the Tuatha de Dananns 
mines were first worked in Ireland; and it is generally be- 
lieved that they were the artificers of those beautifully-shaped 
bronzed swords and spear-heads that have been fouud in Ire- 
land, and of which so many fine specimens may be seen in the 
Museum of the Royal Irish Academy. * * * There is evi- 
dence to show that the vast mounds or artificial hills of Drogh- 
eda, Knowth, Dowth, and New Grange, along the banks of 



THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. 



Two thousand years have pass'd since then, 
And clans and kingdoms in blind com- 
motion 

Have butted at heaven and sunk again 
As the great waves sink in the depths of 



Last King of the Gaels of Eire, be still! 

What God decrees must come to pass: 
There is none that soundeth His Way or 
Will: 
His hand is iron, and earth is glass. 
Where built the Firbolgs there shrieks the 
owl; 
The Tuatha bequeath'd but the name of 
Eire:— 
Roderick, our last of kings, thy cowl 
-Outweighs the crown of thy kingly sire I 



THE FAITHFUL NORMAN. 

Prai&e to the valiant and faithful foe ! 
Give us noble foes, not the friend who 
lies! 
We dread the drugg'd cup, not the open 
blow ; — 
We dread the old hate in the new dis- 
guise. 
To Ossory's King they had pledged their 
word : 
He stood in their camp, and their pledge 
they broke ; 
Then Maurice the Norman upraised his 
sword ; 
The cross on its hilt he kiss'd, and spoke : — 



** So long as this sword or this arm hath 
might 
I swear by the cross which is lord of all, 
By the faith and honor of noble and knight 
Who touches yon Prince by this hand 
shall fall !" 



theBoyne, with several minor tumuli in the same neighbor- 
hood, were erected as the tombs of Tuatha de Danann kings 
•Dd ■chieftains; and as such they only rank alter the pyramids 
of Egypt for the stupendous efforts which were required to 
raise them. As to the Firbolgs, it is doubtful whether there 



So side by side through the throng they 
pass'd ; 
And Eire gave praise to the just and 
true. 
Brave foe! Wrongs past truth heals at 
last ; — 
There is room in the great heart of Eire 
for you ! 



ST. PATRICK AND THE BARD. 

The land is sad, and dark our days : 
Sing us a song of the days that were ! — 

Then sang the bard in his Order's praise 
This song of the chief bard of king Laeg 
haire. 



The King is wroth with a greater wrath 
Than the wrath of Nial or the wrath of 
Conn! 
From his heart to his brow the blood makes 
path, 
And hangs there, a red cloud, beneath hig 
crown. 



Is there any who knows not, from south to 
north, 
That Laeghaire to-morrow his birthday 
keeps ? 
No fire may be lit upon hill or hearth 
Till the King's strong fire in its kingly 
mirth 
Leaps upward from Tara's palace steeps I 



Yet Patrick has lighted his paschal fire 

At Slane, — it is holy Saturday, — 
And bless'd his font 'mid the chanting 
choir ! 
From hill to hill the flame makes way : 
While the King looks on it, his eyes with 
ire 
Flash red, like Mars, under tresses gray. 



are any monumeuts remaining of their first sway in Ireland; 
but the famous Dun Angus, and other great stone forts in the 
islands of Aran, are well authenticated remnants of their mil- 
itary structures of the period of the Christian era, or the»- 
abouts."— P. 2a 



THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. 



The great King's captains with drawn swords 
rose; 
To avenge their Lord and the State they 

swore; 
The Druids rose and their garments tore ; 
"The strangers to us and our gods are foes !" 
Then the King to Patrick a herald sent, 

Who said, " Come np at noon, and show 
Who lit thy fire, and with what intent ? — 
These things the great King Laeghaire 
would know." 



But Laeghaire conceal'd twelve men in the 

way, 
Who swore by the sun the saint to slay. 



When the waters of Boyne began to bask, 
And the fields to flash, in the rising sun, 

The Apostle Evangelist kept his Pasch, 
And Erin her grace baptismal won : 

Her birthday it was ; — his font the rock, 

He bless'd the land, and he bless'd his flock. 



Then forth to Tara he fared full lowly : 
The Staff of Jesus was in his hand ; 

Eight priests paced after him chanting 
slowly, 
Printing their steps on the dewy land. 

It was the Resurrection morn ; 

The lark sang loud o'er the springing corn ; 

The dove was heard, and the hunter's horn. 



The murderers stood close by on the way ; 
Tet they saw naught save the lambs at play. 



A trouble lurk'd in the King's strong eye 
When the guests that he counted for dead 

drew nigh. 
He sat in state at his palace gate; 

His chiefs and his nobles were ranged 

around ; 
The Druids like ravens smelt some far fate ; 
Their eyes were gloomily bent on the 

ground. 
Then spake Laeghaire : "He comes — beware ! 
Let none salute him, or rise from his chair !" 



Like some still vision men see by night, 
Mitred, with eyes of serene command, 
Saint Patrick moved onward in ghostly- 
white : 
The Staff of Jesus was in his hand. 
His priests paced after him unafraid, 
And the boy, Benignus, more like a maid, 
Like a maid just wedded he walk'd and 

smiled, 
To Christ new-plighted, that priestly child. 



They enter'd the circle; their hymn they 



The Druids their eyes bent earthward 
still : 
On Patrick's brow the glory increased, 
As a sunrise brightening some breathless 
hill. 
The warriors sat silent: strange awe they 

felt;— 
The chief bard, Dubtach, rose up, and knelt ! 



Then Patrick discoursed of the things to be 

When time gives way to eternity, 

Of kingdoms that cease, which are dreams 

not things, 
And the Kingdom built by the King of 

kings. 
Of Him he spake who reigns from the Cross ; 
Of the death which is life, and the life which 

is loss ; 
And how all things were made by the Infant 

Lord, 
And the small hand the Magian kings 

adored. 
His voice sounded on like a throbbing flood 
That swells all night from some far-off wood, 
And when it was ended — that wondrous 

strain — 
Invisible myriads breathed low, "Amen !" 



While he spake, men say that the refluent 
tide 
On the shore beside Colpa ceased to sink ; 
And they say the white deer by Mulla's 
side 
O'er the green marge bending forebore to 
drink: 



THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. 



That the Brandon eagle forgat to soar ; 

That no leaf stirr'd in the wood by Lee. — 
Such stupor hung the island o'er, 

For none might guess what the end would 
be. 



Then whisper' d the King to a chief close by, 
" It were better for me to believe than die !" 



Yet the King believed not; but ordinance 

gave 
That whoso would might believe that 

word : 
So the meek believed, and the wise, and 

brave, 
And Mary's Son as their God adored. 
Ethnea and Fethlimea, his daughters twain, 
That day were in baptism born again ; 
And the Druids, because they could answer 

naught, 
Bow'd down to the faith the stranger brought. 
That day upon Erin God pour'd His Spirit, — 
Yet none like the chief of the bards had 

merit, 
Dubtach ! — He rose and believed the first, 
Ere the great light yet on the resi had 

burst. 

It was thus that Erin, then blind but strong, 
To Christ through her chief bard paid 
homage due : 
And this was a sign that in Erin song 
Should from first to last to the cross be 
true! 



'TWAS A HOLY TIME WHEN THE 
KING'S LONG FOEMEN.' 



Twas a holy time when the king's long foe- 
men 

Fought, side by side, to uplift the serf; 
!N ever triumph'd in old time Greek or Roman 

As Brian and Malachi at Clontarf. 



> Malachi, who fought under the great Brian Borumha at 
Clontarf, where the Danish power in Ireland was overthrown 
forever, had himself been King of all Ireland, but allowed 
himself to be deposed, a. d. 1003, and his rival to be elevated 



There was peace in Eire for long years after; 

Canute in England reign'd and Sweyii ; 
But Eire found rest, and the freeman's 
laughter 

Rang out the knell of the vanquish'd Dane. 



Praise to the king of ninety years 

Who rode round the battle-field, cross in 
hand! 
But, the blessing of Eire and grateful tears 

To him who fought under Brian's com- 
mand ! 
A crown in heaven for the king who brake, 

To stanch old discords, his royal wand ; 
Who spurn'd his throne for his people's sake, 

Who served a rival and saved the land ! 



KING LAEGHAIRE AND SAINT 
PATRICK. 

Thus sang to the princess the bard Maelmire; 
But the princess received not the words he 

said : 
There was ever great feud and great hate in 

Eire: 
Yet O'Donnell wept when O'Neill was dead. 



" Thou son of Calphurn, in peace go forth !* 
This hand shall slay them whoe'er shall 
slay thee ! 
The carles shall stand to their necks in 
earth 
Till they die of thirst who mock or stay 
thee! 



in his place. Mr. Moore remarks on this subject (History of 
Ireland, vol. ii. p. 101) : — " The ready acquiescence with which, 
in general, so violent a change in the polity of the country 
was submitted to, may be in a great degree attributed to the 
example of patience and disinterestedness exhibited by the 
immediate victim of this revolution, the deposed Malachi him- 
self. Nor, in forming our estimate of this Prince's character, 
from a general view of his whole career, can we well hesitate 
in coming to the conclusion that not to any backwardness in 
the field, or want of vigor in council, is his tranquil submis- 
sion to the violent encroachments of his rival to be attributed ; 
but to a regard, rare at such an unripe period of civilization, 
for the real interests of the public weal." 

2 The following statement is extracted by Dr. Petrie. in his 
History and Antiquities of Tara Hili, from the Annotations of 
the Life of St Patrick, by Tireehan :— " And Patrick repaired 
again to the City of Tara to Laeghaire the son of Nial, because 
he (the King) had ratified a league with him that he should 



THE POEMS OF AUBEET DE VERE. 



" But my father, Nial, who is dead long since, 

Permits not me to believe thy word ; 
For the servants of Jesus, thy heavenly 

Prince, 
Once dead, lie flat as in sleep, interr'd ; 
But we are as men through dark floods 

that wade ; — 
We stand in our black graves undismay'd : 
Our faces are turn'd to the race abhorr'd, 
And ready beside us stand spear and sword, 
Ready to strike at the last great day, 
Ready to trample them back into clay. 



" This is my realm and men call it Eire, 
Wherein I have lived and live in hate 

(Like Nial before me and Ere his sire) 
Of the race Lagenian, ill-named the 
Great !" 



Thus spoke Laeghaire, and his host rush'd on, 
A river of blood as yet unshed : — 

At noon they fought ; and at set of sun 
That king lay captive, that host lay dead ! 



The brave foe loosed him, but bade him 
swear, 
He would never demand of them Tribute 



So Laeghaire by the dread God-elements 
swore, 
By the moon divine and the earth and air ; 
He swore by the wind and the broad sunshine 

That circle forever both land and sea, 
By the long-baek'd rivers, and mighty wine, 

By the cloud far-seeing, by herb and tree, 
By the boon spring shower, and by autumn's 

fan, 
By woman's breast, and the head of man, 
By night and the noonday Demon he swore 
He would claim the Boarian Tribute no more. 



net be slain in his kingdom; — hut he could not believe, 
saying, 'Nial, my father, did not permit me to believe, 
but that I should be interred in the top of Tara, like men 
standing up in war. For the Pagans are accustomed to 
be buried armed, with their weapons ready, face to face, I 
to the Day of Erdathe, among the Magi, i. e. the Day of 
Judgment of the Lord. 1 " Dr. Petrie in the same work 



But with years wrath wax'd ; and he brake 

his faith ; — 
Then the dread God-elements wrought his 

death ; 
For the wind and sunshine by Cassi's side 
Came down and smote on his head that he 

died. 
Death -sick three days on his throne he 

sate: 
Then he died, as his father died, great in 

hate. 



They buried the king upon Tara's hill, 
In his grave upright ; — there stands he stilh 
Upright there stands he as men that wade 
By night through a castle -moat, undis- 
may'd ; 
On his head is the gold crown, the spear in 

his hand, 
And he looks to the hated Lagenian land. 



Patrick the Apostle, the son of Calphurn, 
These pagan interments endured uo 
krager ; 
And Eire he commanded this song to learn, 
"Though hate is strong yet love is 
stronger !" 
To the Gaels of Eire he gave a Creed : 
He bade them to fear not Fate, Demon, or 

Faery ; 
But to fast in Lent, and by no black deed 
To insult God's Son, and His mother 
Mary. 

Thus sang to the princes the bard 
Maelmire : — 
Oh ! when will it leave me, that widow's. 
wail? 
My heart is stone and my brain is fire 

For the men that died in thy woods, 
Imayle ! 



taken in the battle, and he gave the Lageniaus guarantees, 
that is, the Sun and Moon, the Water and the Air, Day and 
Night, Sea and Land, that he would never during his life 
demand the Bora Tribute. But Laeghaire went again with 
a great army to the LagenianB to demand tribute of them ; 
for he did not pay any regard to his oaths. But. by the 
side of Casi, he was killed by the Sun and the Wind, and 



THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. 



THE BIER THAT CONQUERED 
O'DONNELL'S ANSWER. 



OR, 



Land which the Norman would make his 

own! ' 
(Thus sang the Bard 'mid a host o'erthrown, 
While their white cheeks some on the 

clench'd hand propp'd, 
And from some the life-blood scarce heeded 

dropp'd) 
There are men in thee that refuse to die, 
And that scorn to live, while a foe stands 

nigh ! 



O'Donnell lay sick with a grievous wound : 
The leech had left him ; the priest had 
come ; 
The clau sat weeping upon the ground, 
Their banners furl'd and their minstrels 
dumb. 



Then spake O'Donnell, the king : "Although 
My bour draws nigh, and my dolors grow; 
And although my sins I have now confess'd, 
And desire in the land, my charge, to rest, 
Yet leave this realm, nor will I nor can, 
While a stranger treads on her, child or 
man. 



" I will languish no longer a sick man here : 
My bed is grievous; build up my Bier. 
The white robe a king wears over me throw ; 
Bear me forth to the field where he camps — 

your foe, 
With the yellow torches and dirges low. 
The heralds his challenge have brought and 

fled: 
The answer they bore not I bear instead. 
My people shall fight my pain in sight, 
And I shall sleep well when their wrong 

stands right." 



i Maurice Fitz Gerald, Lord Justice, marched to the north- 
west, and a furious battle was fought between him and God- 
frey O'Donnell, Prince of Tirconnell, at Creadran-Killu, north 
of Sligo, a. d. 1257. The two leaders met in single combat 
and severely wounded each other. It was or the wound he 
then received that O'Donnell died soon after, after trium- 
(hantly defeating his great rival potentate in Ulster. O'Neill. 



Then the clan to the words of their Chief j 

gave ear, 
And they fell'd great oak-trees and built a || 

bier; 
Its plumes from the eagle's wing were shed, 
And the wine-black samite above it they 



Inwoven with sad emblems and texts divine, 
And the braided bud of Tirconnell's pine, 
And all that is meet for the great and brave 
When past are the measured years God gave, 
And a voice cries " Come" from the waiting 
grave. 



When the Bier was ready they laid him 
thereon ; 

And the army forth bare him with wail and 
moan : 

With wail by the sea-lakes and rock abysses ; 

With moan through the vapor-trail'd. wil- 
dernesses ; 

And men sore wounded themselves drew 
nigh 

And saiil, " We will go with our king and 
die ;" 

And women wept as the pomp pass'd by. 

The sad yellow torches far off were seen ; 

No war-note peal'd through the gorge* 
green ; 

But the black pines echo'd the mourners* 



What said the Invader, that pomp in sight ? 
"They sue for the pity they shall not win." 
But the sick king sat on the Bier upright, 
And said, " So well ! I shall sleep to-night : — J 
Rest here my couch, and my peace begin." 



Then the war-cry sounded — " Bataillah 
Aboo !" 
And the whole clan rush'd to the battle 
plain : 

The latter, bearing that O'Donnell was dying, demandea 
hostages from the Kinel Conneli, The messengers wh-> 
brought this insolent message fled in terror the moment they 
had delivered it;— and the answer to it was brought by 
O'DnnneU on bis bier. Maurice Fitz Gerald flually retired ta 
the Franciscan monastery which he had founded at Youghal 
and died peacefully in the habit of that order- 



THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. 



They were thrice driven back, but they 

form'd anew 
That an end might come to their king's 

great pain. 
'Twas a people not army that onward rush'd ; 
'Twas a nation's blood from their wounds 

that gush'd : 
Bare-bosom'd they fought, and with joy 

were slain ; 
Till evening their blood fell fast like rain ; 
But a sbout swell'd up o'er the setting sun, 
And O'Donnell died for the field was won. 

So they baiied their king upon Aileach's 

shore ; 
And in peace he slept ; — O'Donnell More. 



PECCATUM PECCAVIT. 

Where is thy brother ? Heremon, speak !' 

Heber, the son of Milesius, where ? 
The orphans' wail and their mother's shriek 

Forever they ring upon Banba's air ] 
And whose, oh whose was the sword, Here- 
mon, 
That smote Amergin, thy brother and 
bard? 
'Twas the Fate of thy house or a mocking 
Demon 
That raised thy hand o'er his forehead 
scarr'd ! 



Woe, woe to Banba ! That blood of brothers 
Wells up from her bosom renew'd each 
year ; 
'Twas hers the shriek — that desolate moth- 
er's : — 
'Twas Banba wept o'er that first red bier ! 



1 Between the brothers who founded the great Milesian or 
Gaelic dynasty in Ireland there was strife, as between the 
brothers who founded Rome. Heremon and Heber divided 
Ireland between them. A dispute having arisen between 
them, a battle was fought at GeashiU, in the present King's 
County, in which Heber fell by his brother's hand. In the 
second year of his reign Heremon also slew his brother 
Amergin, in battle. To Amergin no territory was assigned. 
He is said to have constructed the causeway or tocliar of Invcr 
Mor, or the mouth of the Ovoca in Wicklow. 

There are some excellent remarks in Mr. Haverty's History 
on the absurdity of disparaging the authentic part of Irish 
history on account of other portions having been but Bardic 



The priest has warn'd, and the bard lament- 
ed: 
But warning and wailing her sons despised; 
The head was sage, and the heart halt 
sainted ; 
But the sword-hand was evermore unbap- 
tized ! 



THE DrRGE OF ATHUNREE. 

A. D. 1316. 

[This great battle marked an epoch in Irish history. In it tha 
Norman power at last triumphed over that of the Gael, whiob 
had long been enfeebled by the divisions in the royal honae 
of O'Connor. Prom this period also the Norman Barons more 
rapidly than before became Irish Chiefs. As such they were 
accepted by Ireland. The power of the English Crown on 
the other hand gradually declined till it became unknown 
beyond the narrow limits of a part of the Pale. It rose again 
after the accession of Henry VTI.l 



Athuneee ! Athunree ! 
Erin's heart, is broke on thee ! 
Ne'er till then in all its woe 
Did that heart its hope forego. 
Save a little child — but one— 
The latest regal race is gone. 
Roderick died again on thee, 
Athunree ! 



Athunree! Athunree! 
A hundred years and forty-three 
Winter-wing'd and black as night 
O'er the land had track'd their flight: 
In Clonmacnoise from earthy bed 
Roderick raised once more his head : — 
Fedlim floodlike rush'd to thee, 
Athunree ! 



Athunree ! Athunree ! 
The light that struggled i 



Legends :— " The ancient Irish' attributed the utmost impor- 
tance to their historical compositions for social reasons— every 
question as to the rights of property turned upon the descent 
of families, and the principle of clanship. *** Again, when 
we arrive at the period of Christianity in Ireland, we find 
that our ancient annals stand the test of verification by 
science, with a success which not only establishes their char- 
acter for truthfulness at that period, but vindicates the records 
of preceding dates." He refers especially to the eclipses re- 
corded. " * * * Shortly after the establishment of Christian 
ity in Ireland the Chronicles of the Bards were replaced ny 
regular Annals, kspt in several of the monasteries." — FarreL 
& Son's edition, p. 23. 



THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. 



Ne'er since Cathall the red-handed 


Barren be thou as the tomb ; 


Such a host till then was handed. 


May the night-bird haunt thy gloom, 


Long-hair'd Kerne and Galloglass 


And the wailer from the sea, 


Met the Norman face to face ; 


Athunree ! 


The saifron standard floated far 




O'er the on-rolling wave of war ; 


VIII. 


Bards the onset sang o'er thee, 


Athunree ! Athunree ! 


Athunree ! 


All my heart is sore for thee, 




It was Erin died on thee, 


IV. 


Athunree ! 


Athunree! Athunree! 




The poison tree took root in thee ! 




What might naked breasts avail 




'Gainst sharp spear and steel-ribb'd mail ? 




Of our Princes twenty-nine, 


BETWEEN TWO MOUNTAINS. 


Bulwarks fair of Connor's line, 




Of our clansmen thousands ten 


i- 


Slept on thy red ridges. Then — 


Between two mountains' granite walls one 


Then the night came down on thee, 


star 


Athunree ! 


Shines in this sea-lake quiet as the grave ; 




The ocean moans against its rocky bar ; 


v. 


That star no reflex finds in foam or wave. 


Athunree ! Athunree ! 




Strangely shone that moon on thee! 


n. 


Like the lamp of them that tread 


Saints of our country ! if, no more a nation, 


Staggering o'er the heaps of dead, 


Vain are henceforth her struggles, from ou 


Seeking that they fear to see. 


high 


Oh, that widow's wailing sore I 


Fix in the bosom of her desolation 


On it rang to Oranmore; 


So much the more that hope which cannot 


Died, they say, among the piles 


die! 


That make holy Aran's isles ; — 




It was Erin wept on thee, 




Athunree ! 




vx 


ODE. 


Athunree ! Athunree ! 




The heart of Erin burst on thee ! 


i. 


Since that hour some unseen hand 


The unvanquish'd land puts forth each year 


On her forehead stamps the brand. 


New growth of man and forest ; 


Her children ate that hour the fruit 


Her children vanish ; but on her, 


That slays manhood at the root ; 


Stranger, in vain thou warrest ! 


Our warriors are not what they were ; 


She wrestles, strong through hope sublime 


Our maids no more are blithe and fair ; 


(Thick darkness round her pressing). 


Truth and honor died with thee, 


Wrestles with God's great Angel, Time — 


Athunree ! 


And wins, though maim'd, the blessing. 


VII. 

Athunree ! Athunree ! 


ii. 

As night draws in what day sent forth, 


Never harvest wave o'er thee ! 


As Spring is born of Winter, 


Never sweetly-breathiug kine 


As flowers that hide in parent earth 


Pant o'er golden meads of thine ! 


Reissue from the centre. 



THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. 



Our land takes back her wasted brood, 

Our land, in respiration, 
Breathes from her deep heart unsubdued 

A renovated nation ! 



Man's mortal frame, for heaven design'd, 

In caves of earth must wither ; 
Of all its myriad atoms join'd 

No twain may cleave together. 
Our land is dead. Upon the blast 

Far forth her dust is driven ; 
But the glorified shape shall be hers at last, 

And the crown that descends from heaven ! 



Her children die ; the nation lives : — 
Through signs celestial ranging 

The nation's Destiny still survives 
. Unchanged, yet ever changing. 

The many-centuried Wrath goes by ; 
But while earth's tumult rages 

" In Ccelo quies." Burst and die, 
Thou storm of temporal ages ! 



Burst, and thine utmost fury wreak 

On things that are but seeming ! 
First kill ; then die ; that God may speak, 

And man surcease from dreaming ! 
That Love and Justice strong as love 

May be the poles unshaken 
Round which a world new-born may move ; 

And Truth that slept may waken I 



THE STATUE OF KILKENNY. 1 

A. D. 1367. 

Of old ye warr'd on men : to day 
On women and on babes ye war; 

The Noble's child his head must lay 
Beneath the peasant's roof no more ! 



i A striking, and, in its admissions, a yery teaching picture 
of the condition of things in Ireland in the fourteenth cen- 
tury is presented by the following extracts from the remon- 
strance despatched to Pope John XXII. by O'Neill, King of 
Ulster, and the other princes of that province. It is given in 
Plowden's History of Ireland with the following remarks : — 
"The disastrous prospect of affairs in Ireland drove the 
English government to the unchristian and scandalous shift 
of prostituting the spiritual powers of th*e Church to the 
profane use of state policy. * * * So powerfully therefore did 



I saw in sleep the Infant's hand 
His foster-brother's fiercely grasp ; 

His warm arm, lithe as willow wand, 
Twines me each day with closer clasp ! 

O infant smiler ! grief beguilerj 
Between the oppressor and the oppress'd, 

O soft, unconscious reconciler, 

Smile on ! through thee the land is bless'd. 

Through thee the puissant love the poor ; 

His conqueror's hope the vancMiish'd shares ; 
For thy sake by a lowly door 

The clan made vassal stops and stares. 

Our vales are healthy. On thy cheek 
There dawns, each day, a livelier red : 

Smile on ! Before another week 
Thy feet our earthen floor will tread ! 

Thy foster-brothers twain for thee 

Would face the wolves on snowy fell : 

Smile on ! the Irish Enemy 

Will fence their Norman nursling well. 

The nursling as the child is dear ; — 
Thy mother loves not like thy nurse ! 

That babbling Mandate steps not near 
Thv cot, but o'er her bleeding corse ! 



THE TRUE KING. 

A. D. 1399. 



He came in the night on a false pretence ; 

As a friend he came — as a lord remains : 
His coming we noted not — when or whence ; 

We slept : we woke in chains. 



the English agents press the mutual interests of both courts 
to resist the erection of a new Scotch dynasty in Ireland., 
that a solemn sentence of excommunication was published 
from the Papal chair against all the enemies of Edward II., 
and nominally against Eobert and Edward Bruce, who were 
then invading Ireland for the purpose of securing to the latter 
the throne, to which the generality of that nation had called 
him."— Vol. i. p. 131. He proceeds—" This remonstrance" 
(sent to neutralize the effect of Edward's appeal to Home) 
il produced so strong an effect upon Pope John XXII., that 
his Holiness immediately transmitted a copy of it to tha 
King, earnestly exhorting him to redress the grievances 
complained of, as the only sure expedient to bring back tha 
Irish to their allegiance." — P. 133. 



THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. 



Ere a year they had chased us to dens and 
caves ; 
Our streets and our churches lay drown'd 
in bloed ; 
The race that had sold us their sons as slaves 
In our land .our conquerors stood! 



Who were they, those princes that gave 
away 
What was theirs to keep, not theirs to 
give? 
A king holds sway for a passing day ; 

The kingdoms forever live ! 
The tanist succeeds when the king is dust :' 
The king rules all; yet the king hath 
naught. 
They were traitors not kings who sold their 
trubt ; 
They were traitors not kings who bought ! 



Brave Art MacMurrough ! — Arise, 'tis morn ! 

For a true king the nation waited long. 
Hi is strong as the horn of the unicorn, 

This true king who rights our wrong ! 
He rules in the fight by an inward right ; 

From the heart of the nation her king is 
grown ; 
He rules by right ; he is might ot her might ; 

Her flesh, and bone of her bone! 



QUEEN MARGARET'S FEASTING. 

A. D. 1451. 



Fair she stood — God's queenly creature !' 
Wondrous joy was in her face 

Of her ladies none in stature 
Like to her, and none in grace 



- According to the Irish law the king, far from being able 
to alienate his. kingdom, had but a life-interest in the sove- 
reignty. His son did not by necessity succeed to the crown. 
The sovereignty was vested in a particular family as repre- 
senting the clan or race. Within certain limits of kin- 
dred in that family the king was chosen by election ; and at 
the same period his Tanist, or successor, was chosen also. 
Such was the immemorial usage : and the transactions by 
which Irish princes occasionally pretended to transfer their 
rights to a foreign power were traitorous proceedings on the 
part of both the sides concerned ic them. These frauds 



On the church-roof stood they round hec^ 

Cloth of gold was her attire ; 
They in jewell'd circle wound her; — 

Beside her Ely's king, her sire. 



Far and near the green fields glitter'd 

Like to poppy-beds in Spring, 
Gay with companies loose-scatter'd 

Seated each in seemly ring 
Under banners red or yellow : 

There all day the feast they kept 
From chill dawn and noontide mellow,. 

Till the hill-shades eastward crept. 



On a white steed at the gateway 

Margaret's husband, Calwagh sate ; 
Guest on guest, approaching, straightway 

Welcomed he with love and state. 
Each pass'd on with largess laden, 

Chosen gifts of thought and work, 
Now the red cloak of the maiden, 

Now the minstrel's golden torque. 



On the wind the tapestries shifted ; 

From the blue hills rang the horn ; 
Slowly toward the sunset drifted 

Cboral'song and shout breeze-borne. 
Like a sea the crowds unresting 

Murmur'd round the gray church-tower j 
Many a prayer, amid the feasting, 

For Margaret's mother rose that hour! 



On the church-roof kerne and noble 
At her bright face look'd half dazed ; 

Naught was hers of shame or trouble ; — 
On the crowds far off she gazed : 



posed to be favorable for the assertion of the new claim. 

a A singularly picturesque narrative of this event is given 
in an old Iri.-h Chronicle translated by Duald MacFcrbis, «ne 
of Ireland's "chief bards," for Sir James Ware, in the year 
1666. and republished in the Miscellany of the Irish Archaeo- 
logical Society, vol. i. 1846. The chronicler thus concludes : 
" God's blessing, the blessing of all the saints, and every one, 
blessing from Jerusalem to Inis Glaaire. be on her going 
to heaven ; and blessed be he who will reade and h~are 
this for blessing her soul ; and cursed be that sore in her 
breast that killed Margaret." See Fan-ell & Son's editiou 
of Haveett's History of Ireland. 




QUEEN MARGARET'S FEASTING. 



THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. 



Once, on heaven her dark eyes bending, 
Her hands in prayer she flung apart ; 

Unconsciously her arms extending, 
She bless'd her people in her heart. 



Thus a Gaelic queen and nation 

At Imayn till set of sun 
Kept with feast the Annunciation, 

Fourteen hundred fifty-one. 
Time it was of solace tender ; — 

'Twas a brave time strong yet fair I 
Blessing, O ye angels, send her 

From Salem's towers and Inisglaaire ! 



PLORANS PLORAVIT. 



She sits alone on the cold grave-stone 
And only the dead are nigh her ; 

In the tongue of the Gael she makes her wail : 
The night wind rushes by her. 

" Few, oh few are leal and true, 
And fewer shall be, and fewer ; 

The land is a corse ;— no life, no force — 
O wind, with sere leaves strew her ! 

" Men ask what scope is left for hope 
To one who has known her story: — 

I trust her dead ! Their graves are red ; 
But their souls are with God in glory." 



WAR-SONG OF MacCARTHY. 



Two lives of an eagle, the old song saith, 

Make the life of a black yew-tree ; 
For two lives of a yew-tree the furrough's 
path 

Men trace, grass-grown on the lea ; 
Two furroughs they last till the time is past 

God willeth the world to be ; 
For a furrough's life has MacCarthy stood 
fast, 

MacCarthy in Carbery. 



Up with the banner whose green shall live 

While lives the green on the oak ! 
And down with the axes that grind and nve 

Keen-edged as the thunder-stroke ! 
And on with the battle-cry known of old, 

And the clan-rush like wind and wave ;— 
On, on ! the Invader is bought and sold ; 

His own hand has dug his grave ! 



FLORENCE MacCARTHY'S FARE- 
WELL TO HIS ENGLISH LOVE.* 



My pensive-brow'd Evangeline ! 
What says to thee old Windsor's pine 

Whose shadow o'er the pleasance sways? 
It says, " Ere long the evening star 
Will pierce my darkness from afar : — 

I grieve as one with grief who plays." 



Evangeline ! Evangeline ! 

In that far distant land of mine 

There stands a yew-tree among tombs ! 
For ages there that tree has stood, 
A black pall dash'd with drops of blood — 

O'er all my world it breathes its glooms. 



England's fair child, Evangeline ! 
Because my yew-tree is not thine, 

Because thy Gods on mine wage war, 
Farewell ! Back fall the gates of brass ; 
The exile to his own must pass ;— 

I seek the land of tombs once more. 



1 There is a striking description of Florence MacCarthy to 
the Pacata Hibernia. He " was contented (tandem aliquando) 
to repaire to the president, lying at Moyallo, bringing some 
fourty horse in his company; and himself in the middest of 
his troope (like the great Turke among his janissaries) 
dr:r,v toward the house, the nine-and-twentieth of October,, 
like Saul higher by the head and shoulders than any of his 
followers."— P. 170. The moral indignation constantly 
expressed by the author of the Pacata Hibernia at Florence 
JIai-Oarthy's method of countermining the far darker intrigues 
of the Lord President, recorded in that work, with intrigues 
of his own, is curious. Before the period he describes, Florence 
had been for eleven years detained a prisoner in England. In 
1601 he was again arrested at a time when he possessed the 
"Queen's protection," and tent to the Tower— where he' 
j passed the rest of his life. 



THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. 



WAR-SONG OF TIRCONNELL'S BARD AT 
THE BATTLE OF BLACKWATER, 

A. D. 1597. 

[At thin battle the Irish of Ulster were commanded by 
" Bed Hugh" O'Neill, Prince of Tirone, and by Hugh O'Don- 
Iiel; (called ako "Red Hugh"), Prince of Tirconnell. Queen 
■Elizabeth's army was led by Marshal Bagnal, who fell in the 
tout with 2,500 of the invading force. Twelve thousand 
gold pieces, thirty-four standards, and all the artillery of the 
Tanquished army were taken.] 



Glory to God, and to the powers that fight 

For Freedom and the Right ! 
We have them then, the Invaders ! There 
they stand 

Once more on Oriel's land ! 
They have pass"d the gorge stream-cloven, 

And the mountain's purple bound ; 
Now the toils are round them woven, 

Now the nets are spread around ! 
Give them time : their steeds are blown; — 

Let them stand and round them stare 

Breathing blasts of Irish air. 

Our clouds are o'er them sailing ; 

Our woods are round them wailing ; 
Our eagles know their own ! 



Thrice we've met them — race and brood! 
First at Clontibret they stood : — * 
How soon the giant son of Meath' 
Roll'd from his horse upon the heath ! 

Again we met them — once again ; 
Portmore and Banburb's plain know where : 
There fell de Burgh ; there fell Kildare : 
(His valiant foster-brothers twain 
Died at his feet, but died in vain ;) 
There Waller, Turner, Vaughan fell, 
Vanqnish'd, though deem'd invincible ! 



• This battle was fought in 1 597. Lord de Burgh command- 
ing the English. 

* Red Hugh O'Donnell, when but a boy of fifteen, was 
already celebrated for his beauty, his courage, and his strtll 
in warlike accomplishments. To prevent him from assuming 
the headship of Tirconnell the following device was resorted 
to by Sir John Perrot, Lord President of Munster. During the 
summer of 1587 Red Hugh with MacSwyne of the batlle-axes, 
©'Gallagher of Ballyshannon, and some other Irish chiefs, 
nad gone to a monastery of Carmelites situated on the western 
shore of Lough Swilly, and facing the mountains of Inish- 
nwen, the church of which had long been a famous place of 
ollgrimage. Ono day a 6hip, in appearance a merchant vessel, 



We raised that hour a battle-axe 
That dinn'd the iron on your backs ! 
Vengeance, that hour, a wide-wing'd Fury, 
On drave you to the gates of Newry: 
There rest ye found ; by rest restored, 
Sang there your song of Battleford ! 



Thou rising su-n, fair fall 
Thy greeting on Armagh's time-honor'd 
wall, 

And on the willows hoar 
That fringe thy silver waters, Avonmore ! 
See ! on that hill of drifted sand 
The far-famed Marshal holds command, 
Bagnal, their bravest : — to the right 
That recreant neither chief nor knight 
" The Queen's O'Reilly," he that sold 
His country, clan, and Church for gold ! 
" Saint George for England !" — Rebel crew ! 
What are the Saints ye spurn to you ? 
They charge ; they pass yon grassy swell ; 
They reach our pitfall's hidden well. 
On, warriors native to the sod, 
Be on them in the power of God ! 



Twin stars ! Twin regents of our righteous 

war! 
This day remember whose, and who ye are — 
Thou that o'er green Tir-owen's tribes hast 

sway! 
Thou whom Tir-connell's vales obey ! 

The line of Nial, the line of Conn, 

So oft at strife, to-day are one ! 

Both Chiefs are dear to Eire ; to me 

Dearest he is and needs must be, 
My Prince, my Chief, my child, on whom 
So early fell the dungeon's doom. 4 

O'Donnell ! hear this day thy Bard ! 



sailed np the bay, cast anchor opposite Rathmullan, and offered 
for sale her cargo of Spanish wine. Young Red Hugh was 
among those who went on board during the night. The next 
morning he and his companions found themselves secured 
under hatches. He was thrown into prison in Dublin, where 
he languished for three years and three months. At the end 
of that time he made his escape, and flying to the south took 
refuge with Felim O'Toole, who surrendered him to the 
English. "He remained again in irons," says the Chronicle, 
"until the Feast of Christmas, 1592, when it seemed to the Son 
of the Virgin time for him to escape." Once more he fled, 
accompanied by two sons of Shane O'Neill, to the mountains 
of Wicklow. then covered with snow. After wandering abuut 
for three days and nights O'Donnell and one of his conipuniona 
(the other had perished) were found by 6ome of O'Byrne's 
clansmen beneath the ehelter of a cliff, benumbed and almost 



THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. 



461 



By those young feet so maim'd and 

scarr'd, 
Bit by the winter's fangs when lost 
Thou wander'dst on through snows and 

frost, 
Remember thou those years in chains thou 

worest, 
Snatch'd in false peace from unsuspecting 

halls, 
And that one thought, of all thy pangs the 

sorest, 
Thy subjects groan'd the upstart alien's 

thralls ! 
That thought on waft thee through the fight : 
On, on. for Erin's right ! 



Seest thou yon stream whose tawny waters 

glide 
Through weeds and yellow marsh lingeringly 
and slowly ? 
Blest is that spot and holy ! 
There, ages past, Saint Bercan stood and 

cried, 
* This spot shall quell one day the Invaders' 
pride !" 
He saw in mystic trance 

The blood-stain flush yon rill : — 
On, hosts of God, advance ; 

Your country's fates fulfil! 
On, clansmen, leal and true, 
Lambdearg ! Bataillah-aboo ! 
Be Truth this day your might ! 
Truth lords it in the fight ! 



O'Neill ! That day be with thee now 
When, throned on Ulster's regal seat of 
stone, 

Thou satt'st, and thou alone ; 
While flock'd from far the Tribes, and to thy 
hand 

Was given the snow-white wand, 
Erin's authentic sceptre of command ! 
Kingless a People stood around thee ! Thou 
Didst dash the British bauble from thj brow, 

And for a coronet laid down 



dead from hunger ; for during those three days their food had 
consisted of grass and forest leaves. On the restoration of his 
strength O'Donnell succeeded, with the assistance of O'Neill, 
in making his way to his native mountains. From that mo- 
ment the two great Northern Princes of Tirconnell and Tirone, 
renouncing the ancient rivalries of their several Honses, 



That People's love became once more thy 
crown ! 
True King alone is he 
In whom summ'd up his People share the 
throne : — 
Fair from the soil he rises like a tree : 
Rock-like the stranger presses on it, prone ! 
Strike for that People's cause ! 
For Tanistry ; for Brehon laws : 
The sage traditions of civility ; 
Pure hearths, and faith set free ! 



Hark ! the thunder of their meeting ! 

Hand meets hand, and rough the greeting ! 

Hark ! the crash of shield and brand ; 

They mix, they mingle, band with band, 

Intertwisted, intertangled, 

Mangled forehead meeting mangled, 

Like two horn-commingling stags 

Wrestling on the mountain crags ! 

Lo ! the wavering darkness through 

I see the banner of Red Hugh ; 

Close beside is thine, O'Neill ! 

Now they stoop and now they reel,. 

Rise once more aud onward sail, 

Like two falcons on one gale ! — 

O ye clansmen past me rushing 

Like mountain torrents seaward gushing, 

Tell the Chiefs that from this height 

Their Chief of bards beholds the fight ; 

That on theirs he pours his spirit ; 

Marks their deeds and chants their merit; 

While the Priesthood evermore, 

Like him that ruled God's host of yore, 

With arms outstreteh'd that God implore I 

VIII. 

Mightiest of the line of Conn, 

On to victory ! On, on, on ! 

It is Erin that in thee 

Lives and works right wondrously ! 

Eva from the heavenly bourne 

Upon thee her eyes doth turn, 

She whose marriage couch was spread' 

'Twixt the dying and the dead ! 

Parcell'd kingdoms one by one 

entered into that common alliance against the invader, th» 
effects of which were irresistible until that reverse at Kinsale 
of which the cause has never been explained. 

1 The celebrated picture of an Irish artist, Mr. Maclise, ha» 
rendered well known this incident, one of the most touching 
ii hiBtory. After the capture of Waterford the King of 



THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. 



For a prey to traitors thrown ; 
Pledges forfeit, broken vows, 
Roofless fane, and blazing house ; 
All the dreadful deeds of old 
Rise resurgent from the mould, 
For their judgment peal is toll'd ! 
All our Future takes her stand 
Hawk-like on thy lifted hand. 
States that live not, vigil keeping 
In the lirnbo of long weeping; 
Palace-courts and minster-towers 
That shall make this isle of ours 
Fairer than the star of morn, 
Wait thy mandate to be born ! 
Chief elect 'mid desolation, 
Wield thou well the inspiration 
Thou drawest from a new-born nation ! 



Sleep no longer Bards that hold 

Ranged beneath me harps of gold ! 

Smite them with a heavier hand 

Than vengeance lays on axe or brand ! 

Pour upon the blast a song 

Linking litanies of wrong, 

Till, like poison-dews, the strain 

Eat into the Invader's brain. 

On the retributive harp 

Catch that death-shriek shrill and sharp* 

Which she utter'd, she whose lord 



Perish'd, Essex, at thy board ! 

Peerless chieftain ! peerless wife ! 

From his throat, and hers, the knife 

Drain'd the mingled tide of life ! 

Sing the base assassin's steel 

By Sussex hired to slay O'Neill !' 

Sing, fierce Bards, the plains sword-wasted, 

Sing the cornfields burnt and blasted, 

That when raged the war no longer 

Kernes dog-chased might pine with hunger I 

Pour around their ears the groans 

Of half-human skeletons 

From wet cave or forest-cover 

Foodless deserts peering over : 

j Or upon the roadside lying, 

I Infant dead and mother dying, 

; On their mouths the grassy stain 

I Of the wild weed gnaw'd in vain ; — 

[ Look upon them, hoary Head 

j Of the last of Desmonds dead ; 

| His that drew — too late — bis sword 

■ Religion and his right to guard ; 

• Head that evermore dost frown 

| From the tower of London down ! 
She that slew him from her barge 
Makes that Head this hour the targe 
Of her insults cold and keen, 
England's caliph, not her queen ! 
— Portent terrible and dire 
Whom thy country and thy sire* 



Leins ter led forth his daughter and married her to the Nor- 
man, Strongbow. This was on St. Bartholomew's Day, 1170. 
" The marriage ceremony was hastily performed, and the 
wedding cortege passed through streets reeking with the still 
warm blood of the brave and unhappy citizens." — Hayerty's 
Hist., p. ITT, Parrell & Son's edition. 

1 " Another and equally unsuccessful attempt to plant Ulster 
was made in 1573 by a more distinguished minion of the 
Queen, Walter Devereux, Earl of Essex. Elizabeth embarked 
with that noble Earl in his project of colonizing Clandeboy in 
Ulster. * * * Lingard says that the agreement was that the 
Queen and the Earl should furnish each half the expense, and 
thonH divide the colony when it should be peopled with two 
thousand settlers. This bargai n of fraud and crime was sealed 
by Essex witli a desperate act of villainy. On his arrival in 
TJl<tcr he met a most formidable opposition from Phelirn 
O'Neill, which resulted, after a great deal of hard fighting, in a 
solemn peace between them. ' However,' says the manuscript 
Irish Annals of Queen Elizabeth's reign, 'at a feast wherein 
the Earl entertained that chieftain, and at the end of their 
food cheer, O'Neill with his wife were seized ; the friends who 
itlerded were put to the sword before their faces; Phelirn, 
Tvilh l j s rt-ife and brother, were conveyed to Dublin, where 
they w. • •■ cut up in quarters.' "—(.The Confiscation of Ulster. 
By Thomas MacXkvm. p. 53; .Tames Duffy.) 



ttl the Queen's representativ 



after first 6wearing him upon the Bible to keep all secret, it 
was proposed that he should receive for this murder of Shane 
one hundred marks of land a year to him and his heirs for- 
ever." — Moore's Hist., vol. iv. p. 32. 

" With regard to the odious transaction now under cou- 
sideration there needs no more than the letter addressed by 
Sussex himself to his royal misfess on that occasion, to prove 
the frightful familiarity with deeds of blood which then 
prevailed in the highest stations."— Ibid. The letter, which 
is preserved in the State-paper Office, thus concludes: — "In 
fine. I brake with him to kill Shane, and botwid myself by my 
oath to see him have a hundred marks of land. He seemed 
desirous to serve yonr Highness and to have the land; but 
fearful to do it, doubting his escape after. I told him the 
ways he might do it, and how to escape after with safety, 
which he offered and promised to do." 

3 The illegitimacy of Elizabeth rests upon authority no: 
particularly favorable to the opposite side, viz., Archbishop 
Cranmer. and an Act of Parliament never repealed even in her 
own reign :— " Cranmer, ' having previously invoked the name 
of Christ, and having God alone before his eyes,' pronounced 
definitively that the marriage formerly contracted, solemnized 
and consummated between Henry and Anne Boleyn was, and 
always had been, null and void. The whole process was after- 
ward laid before the members of the Convocation, and the 
Houses of Parliament. The former presumed not to dissent 
from the decision of the metropolitan ; tbe latter were willing 
that in such a case their ignorance should be guided by the 
learning of the clergy. By both the divorce was approved and 
confirmed."— Lingard's Hist., vol. v. p. 30. What was the ori- 
gin of the Parliament which Elizabeth induced zo recognize lier 



THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. 



Branded with a bastard's name, 
Thy birth was but thy lightest shame ! 
To honor recreant and thine oath ; — 

Trampling that Faith whose borrow'd garb 1 
First gave thee sceptre, crown, and orb, 
Thy flatterers scorn, thy lovers loathe 
That idol with the blood-stain'd feet 
Ill-throned on murder'd Mary's seat ! 



Glory be to God on high ! 

That shout ra-ng up into the sky ! 

The plain lies bare ; the smoke drifts by ; 

Again that cry : they fly ! they fly ! 

O'er them standards thirty-four 

Waved at morn ; they wave no more. 

Glory be to Him alone who holds the nations 

in His hand, 
And to them the heavenly guardians of our 

Church and native land ! 
Sing, ye priests, youi deep Te Deums ; bards, 

make answer loud and long, 
In your rapture flinging heavenward censers 

of triumphant song. 
Isle for centuries blind in bondage, make 

ODCe more thine^ ancient boast, 
From the cliffs of Inishowen southward on 

to Carbery's coast ! 
We have seen the right made perfect, seen 

the Hand that rules the spheres 
Glance like lightning through the clouds, 

and backward roll the wrongful years. 



title ? " In the Lower House a majority had been secured by 
the expedient of sending to the sheriffs a list of court candi- 
dates, out of whom the members were to be chosen." — 
liiHBAKD, vol. vi. p. 5. The court named five candidates for 
the shires, and three for the boroughs! 

1 Not only had Elizabeth repeatedly asserted herself to be 
a Catholic in her sister's reign, but for some time after her 
own accession she wore the same mask. "She continued to 
assist and occasionally to communicate at mass : she buried 
her sister with all the solemnities of the Catholic ritual ; and 
she ordered a solemn dirge, and a mass of requiem for the 
4 soul of the Emperor Charles V.' " — Lingard. Her corona- 
tion was conducted with all the ceremonial of the Catholic 
Pontifical, and at it she received the Sacrament under one 
kind. 

The following contemporaneous sketch of Elizabeth's last 
year is not commonly known: — "Sir John Harrington, her 
godson, who visited the court about seven months after the 
death of FX-.-tex, mi~ described in a private letter ihe state in 
which he found the Queen. She was altered in her features 
and reduced to a skeleton. Her food was nothing but manchet 
bread, and succory pottage. * * * For her protection she had 
ordered t sword to be placed by her table, which she often took 
m her hand, and thrust with violence into the tapestry of her 
chamber. About a year later he returned to her presence. 'I 
found her,' he says, ' in a most pitiable state. She bade the 
archbishop ask me if I had seen Tirone. I replied with rever- 
ence that I had seen him with the Lord Deputy. She looked 



Glory fadeth, but this triumph is no barren 

mundane glory ; 
Rays of healing it shall scatter on the eyes 

that read our story : 
Upon nations bound and torpid, as they 

waken it shall shine 
As on Peter in his chains the angel shone 

with light divine. 
From the unheeding, from the unholy it 

may hide, like Truth, its ray ; 
But when Truth and Justice conquer on 

their crowns its beam shall play. 
O'er the ken of troubled tyrants it shall trail 

a meteor's glare ; 
For the blameless it shall glitter as the star 

of morning fair: 
Whensoever Erin triumphs then its dawn it 

shall renew, — 
Then O'Neill shall be remember'd, and 

Tirconnell's chief, Red Hugh ! 



THE MARCH TO KINSALE. 

DECEMBER, A. D. 1601. 
I. 

O'er many a river bridged with ice, 
Through many a vale with snow-drifta 
dumb, 

Past quaking fen and precipice 

The Princes of the North are come ! 



up with much choler and grief in her countenance, and said, 
" now it mindeth me that you was one who saw this man 
elsewhere," and hereat she dropped a tear and smote her 
bosom. She held in her hand a golden cup which she often 
put to her lips ; but in truth her heart seemed too full to need 
any more filling.' * * * At length she obstinately refhsed to 
return to her bed : and sat both day and night on a stool 
bolstered up with cushions, having her linger in her mouth, 
and her eyes fixed on the floor, seldom condescending te 
speak, and rejecting every offer of nourishment. The bishops 
and the lords of the council advised and entreated in vain. 
For them all, with the exception of the Lord Admiral, she 
expressed the most profound contempt. He was of her own 
blood ; from him she consented to accept a basin of broth ; but 
when he urged her to return to her bed, she replied that if he 
had seen what she saw there he won Id never make the request. 
To Cecil, who asked if she had seen /spirits, she answered that 
it was an idle question beneath her notice. He insisted that 
she must go to bed, if only to satisfy her people. 'Must!' she 
exclaimed; l is must a word to be addressed to prii.ces? Little 
man, little man, thy father, if he had been alive, durst not 
have used that word; but thou art grown presumptuous 
because thon knowest that I shall die.' Ordering the others 
to depart, she called the Lord Admiral to her, saying in a 
piteous tone, ' My lord, I am tied with an iron collar about 
my neck.' He sought to console her, but she replied No, I 
am tied, and the case is altered with me.' "— Ldiqabd, voL Ti. 
p. 315, 16. Edit. 1854. 



•II M 



THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. 



Lo, these are they that year by year 

Roll'd back the tide of England's war; — 
Rejoice, Kinsale ! thy hope is near ! 
That wondrous winter-march is o'er. 
And thus they sang, " To-morrow morn 

Our eyes shall rest upon the foe : 
Roll on, swift night, in silence borne, 
And blow, thou breeze of sunrise, 
blow !" 



Blithe as a boy, on march'd the host 

With droning pipe and clear-voiced barp: 
At last above that southern coast 

Rang out their war-steed's whinny sharp ; 
And up the sea-salt slopes they wound, 

And airs once more of ocean quaff 'd; — • 
Those frosty woods the racks that crown'd, 
As though May touch'd them waved and 
laugh'd. 
And thus they sang, " To-morrow morn 

Our eyes shall rest upon our foe : 
Roll on, swift night, in silence borne, 
And blow, thou breeze of sunrise, 
blow !" 



their watch-fires couch'd all night, 
Some slept, some laugh'd, at cards some 
play'd, 
While, chanting on a central height 

Of moonlit crag, the priesthood pray'd. 
And some to sweetheart, some to wife 

Sent message kind ; while others told 
Triumphant tales of recent fight, 
Or legends of their sires of old. 

And thus they sang, " To-morrow morn 

Our eyes at last shall see the foe : 
Roil on, swift night, in silence borne, 
And blow, tbou breeze of sunrise, 
blow !" 



A. D. 1602. 

What man can stand amid a place of tombs 
Nor yearn to that poor vanquish'd dust 
beneath ? — 

Above a nation's grave no violet blooms ; 
A vanquish'd nation lies in endless death. 



'Tis past ! — the dark is dense with ghost and 
vision ! 
All lost ! — the air is throng'd with moan 
and wail ; 
But one day more, and hope had been frui- 
tion ; — 
O Athunree, thy fate o'erhuug Kinsale! 1 

What Name is that which lays on every 
head 
A hand like fire, striking the strong locks 
gray? 
What Name is named not save with shame 
and dread ? 
Once let us name it, — then no more for 



Kinsale ! accursed be he the first who 
bragg'd 
" A city stands where roam'd but late the 
flock;" 
Accursed the day, when, from the mountain 
dragg'd, 
Thy corner-stone forsook the mother-rock ! 



DIRGE OF RORT O'MORE 

A. D. 1643. 

Up the sea-sadden'd valley at evening's de- 
cline 

A heifer walks lowing — "the silk of the 
kine ;" * 

From the deep to the mountains she roams, 
and again 

From the mountains' green urn to the purple- 
rimm'd main. 

Whom seek'st thou, sad Mother! Thine 

own is not thine ! 
He dropp'd from the headland ; he sank in 

the brine ! 



1 The wholly inexplicable disaster at Kinsale, when, after 
their marvellous winter-inarch, the two great northern chief* 
of Tirconnell and Tirone had succeeded in relieving their 
Spanish allies there, and when the victory seemed almost 
wholly in the hands of warriors who till then had never met 
with a reverse, was one of those critical events upon which 
the history of a nation turns. But for it, Ireland would at the 
death of Elizabeth have been in such a position that Ulster 
would have had nothing to fear from James I. 

» One of the mystical names for Ireland used by the bards. 



THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VEliE. 



'Twas a dream ! — but in dream at thy foot 

did he follow- 
Through the meadow-sweet on by the marish 

and mallow ! 

Was he thine ? Have they slain him ? Thou 

seek'st him not knowing 
Thyself too art theirs, thy sweet breath and 

sad lowing ! 
Thy gold horn is theirs ; thy dark eye, and 

thy silk ! 
And that which torments thee, thy milk, is 

their milk! 

'Twas no dream, Mother Land ! 'Twas no 

dream, Inisfail ! 
Hope dreams, but grief dreams not — the 

grief of the Gael! 
From Leix and Ikerren to Donegal's shore 
Rolls the dirge of thy last and thy bravest — 

O'More ! 



THE BISHOP OF ROSS. 



They led him to the peopled wall : — 

" Thy sons !" they said, " are those within ! 

If at thy word their standards fall. 
Thy life and freedom thou shalt win !" 

Tht'n spake tLat warrior Bishop old : 
" Remove these chains, that I may bear 

My crosier staff and stole of gold: 
My judgment then will I declare." 

They robed him in his robes of state : 
They set the mitre on his head : 

On tower and gate was silence great : 
The hearts that loved him froze with dread. 

He spake : " Right holy is your strife ! 

Fight for your country, king, 1 and faith : 
1 taught you to be true in life : 

I teach you to be true in death. 



"A priest apart by God is set 
To offer prayer and sacrifice : 

And he is sacrificial yet, 

Th« pontiff for his flock who dies." 

Ere yet he fell, his hand on high 
He raised, and benediction gave ; 

Then sank in death, content to die : — 
Thy great heart, Erin, was his grave. 



"Charles the First. 



ARCHBISHOP PLUNKET. 



(the last victim or the "popish plot.") 

[" The Earl of Essex went to the King (Charles II.) to apply 
for a pardon, and told his Majesty ' the witnesses must needs 
be perjured, as what they swore could not possibly be true ,* 
but his Majesty answered in a passion, b Why did you not de- 
clare this then at the trial f I dare pardon nobudy— his bloofi 
be upon your head, and not mine 1' "— Haverty's Hiei.\ 

Why crowd ye windows thus, and doors ? 

Why climb ye tower and steeple ? 
What lures you forth, O senators ? 

What brings you here, O people ? 

Here there is nothing worth your note — 

'Tis but an old man dying : 
The noblest stag this season caught, 

And in the old nets lying ! 

Sirs, there are marvels, but not here : — 
Here's but the thread-bare fable 

Whose sense nor sage discerns nor seer;— ~ 
Unwilling is unable ! 

That prince who lurk'd in bush and brake 
While bloodhounds bay'd behind him, 

Now, to his father's throne brought back, 
In pleasure's wreaths doth wind him. 

The primate of that race, whose sword 
Stream'd last to save that father, 

To-day is reaping such reward 
As Irish virtues gather. 

Back to your councils, courts, and feasts ! 

'Tis but a new " Intruder" 
Conjoin'd with those incivic priests 

That dyed the blocks of Tudor 1 



THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. 



A SONG OF THE BRIGADE. 

River that through this purple plain 
Toilest (once redder) to the main, 
Go, kiss for me the banks of Seine 1 

Tell him I loved, and love for aye, 
That his I am though far away, — 
More his than on the marriage-day. 

Tell him thy flowers for him I twine 
When first the slow sad mornings shine 
In thy dim glass — for he is mine. 

Tell him when evening's tearful light 
Bathes those dark towers on Aughrim's 

height, 
There where he fought in heart I fight. 

A freeman's banner o'er him waves ! 

So be it ! I but kiss the graves 

Where freemen sleep whose sons are slaves. 

Tell him I nurse his noble race, 
Nor weep save o'er one sleeping face 
Wherein those looks of his I trace. 

For him my beads I count when falls 
Moonbeam or shower at intervals 
Upon our burn'd and blacken'd walls : 

And bless him ! bless the bold Brigade, — 
May God go with them, horse and blade, 
For Faith's defence, and Ireland's aid ! 



A BALLAD OF SARSFIELD; OR, THE 
BURSTING OF THE GUNS. 



Sarsfielp went out the Dutch to rout, 
And to take and break their cannon ; 

To mass went he at half-past three, 
And at four he cross'd the Shannon. 

Tirconnel slept. In dream his thoughts 
Old fields of victory ran on ; 



And the chieftains of Thomond in Limeriok'i 
towers 
Slept well by the banks of Shannon. 



He rode ten miles and he' cross'd the ford, 
And couch'd in the wood and waited; 

Till, left and right, on march'd in sight 
That host which the true men hated. 






" Charge !" Sarsfield cried ; and the green 
hill-side 
As they charged replied in thunder ; 
They rode o'er the plain and they rode o'e# 
the slain, 
And the rebel rout lay under ! 

He burn'd the gear the knaves held dear, — 
For his king he fought, not plunder ; 

With powder he cramm'd the guns, and 
ramm'd 
Their mouths the red soil under. 

The spark flash'd out — like a nation's shout 
The sound into heaven ascended ; 

The hosts of the sky made to earth reply, 
And the thunders twain were blended ! 

Sarsfield went out the Dutch to rout, 
And to take and break their cannon ; — 

A century after, Sarsfield's laughter 
Was echo'd from Dungannon. 1 



OH THAT THE PINES WHICH 
CROWN TON STEEP. 

Oh that the pines which crown yon steep 
Their fires might ne'er surrender ! 

Oh that yon fervid knoll might keep, 
While lasts the world, its splendor ' 

Pale poplars on the breeze that lean, 

And in the sunset shiver, 
Oh that your golden stems might screen 

For aye yon glassy river ! 



> It was in the parish church of Dnngannon that the TolttB 
teers of 1783 proclaimed the constitutional independence of 
the Irish Parliament. 



THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. 



That yon white bird on homeward wing 
Soft-sliding without motion, 

And now in blue air vanishing 
Like snow-flake lost in ocean, 

Beyond our sight might never flee, 

Yet forward still be flying : 
And all the dying day might be 

Immortal in its dying. 

Pellucid thus in saintly trance, 

Thus mute in expectation, 
What waits the earth ? Deliverance ? 

Ah no ! Transfiguration ! 

She dreams of that new earth divine, 
Conceived of seed immortal ; 

She sings, " Not mine the holier shrine, 
Yet mine the steps and portal 1" 



THE LAST MacCARTHYMORE. 

[The last great chief of the MaoCarthy family, which had 
reigned in South Desmond ever since the second centuiy, 
went into exile with James II. He spent the last years of his 
fife on a wad island strewu with wrecks in the mouth of the 
Elbe] 

On thy woody heaths, Muskerry — Carbery, 

on thy faniish'd shore, 
Hands hurl'd upward, wordless wailings, 

clamor for MacCarthymore ! 
He is gone ; and never, never shall return to 

wild or wood 
Till the sun burns out in blackness and the 

moon descends in blood. 

He, of lineage older, nobler, at the latest 
Stuart's side 

Once again had drawn the sword for Charles, 
in blood of traitors dyed ; 

Once again the stranger fattens where Mac- 
Carthys ruled of old, 

For a later Cromwell triumphs in the Dutch- 
man's muddier mould. 

Broken boat and barge around him, sea-gulls 

piping loud and shrill, 
Sits the chief where bursts the breaker, and 

laments the sea-wind chill ; 



In a barren northern island dinn'd by ocean's 

endless roar, 
Where the Elbe with all his waters i 

between the willows hoar. 



Earth is wide in hill and valley; — palace 
courts and convent piles 

Centuries since received thine outcasts, Ire- 
land, oft with tears and smiles ; 

Wherefore builds this gray-hair'd exile on a 
rock-isle's weedy neck ? — 

Ocean unto ocean calleth; inly yearneth 
wreck to wreck ! 



He and his, his church and country, king 

and kinsmen, house and home, 
Wrecks they are like broken galleys 

strangled by the yeasty foam ; 
Nations past and nations present are or 

shall be soon as these — 
Words of peace to him come only from the 

breast of roaring seas. 

Clouds and sea-birds inland drifting o'er the 

sea-bar and sand-plain ; 
Belts of mists for weoks unshifting ; plunge 

of devastating rain ; 
Icebergs as they pass uplifting agueish 

gleams through vapors frore, 
These, long years, were thy companions, O 

thou last MacCarthymore ! 

When a rising tide at midnight rush'd 

against the downward stream, 
Rush'd not then the clans embattled, meet- 

ing in the chieftain's dream ? 
When once more that tide exhausted died 

in murmurs toward the main, 
Died not then once more his slogan ebbing 

far o'er hosts of slain ? 



Pious river! let us rather hope the low 
monotonies 

Of thy broad stream seaward toiling and 
the willow-bending breeze 

Charm'd at times a midday slumber, tran- 
quillized tempestuous breath — 

Music last when harp was broken, requiem 
sad and sole in death. 



THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. 



HYMN FOR THE FEAST OF 
ST. STEPHEN. 



Princes sat and spake against me ; 

Sinners held me in their net ; 
Thou, O Lord, shalt save thy servant, 

For on thee his heart is set. 
Strong is he whose strength Thou art ; 
Plain his speech and strong his heart. 



Blessed Stephen stood discoursing 

In the bud of spotless youth 
With his judges. Love, not malice, 

Edged his words and arm'd with truth. 
They that heard him gnash'd their teeth ; 
Heard him speak, and vow'd his death. 



Gather'd on a thousand foreheads 
Dark and darker grew the frown, 

Broad'ning like the pinewood's shadow 
While a wintry sun goes down. 

On the Saint that darkness fell : — 

At last they spake : it was his knell. 



As a maid her face uplifteth 

Brightening with an inward light, 

When the voice of her beloved 

Calls her from some neighboring height, 

So his face he raised on high, 

And saw his Saviour in the sky ! 



Dimm'd a moment was. that vision : — 
O'er him burst the stony shower ; 

Stephen with his arms Extended 
For his murderers pray'd that hour. 

To his prayer Saint Paul was given : 

Then he 6lept and woke in heaven. 



Faithful deacon, still at Christmas 
Decking tables for the poor ! 

Martyr, at the bridal banquet 
Guest of God for evermore ! 

In the realms of endless day 

For thine earthly clients pray 1 



GRATTAN. 



God works through man, not hills or snows ! 

In man, not men, is the God-like power ; 
The man, God's potentate, God foreknows ; 

He sends him strength at the destined 
hour. 
His Spirit He breathes into one deep heart; 
His cloud He bids from one mind depart, 
A Saint ! — and a race is to God re-born ! 
A Man ! One man makes a nation's morn ! 



A man, and the blind land by slow degrees 
Gains sight ! A man, and the deaf land 
hears ! 
A man, and the dumb land, like wakening 
seas, 
Thunders low dirges in proud, dull ears 1 
One man, and the People a three days' corse, 
Stands up, and the grave-bands fall off per- 
force ; 
One man, and the Nation in height a span 
To the measure ascends of the perfect man. 



Thus wept unto God the land of Eire : 
Yet there rose no man, and her hope was 

dead : 
In the ashes she sat of a burn'd-out fire ; 

And sackcloth was over her queenly head. 
But a man in her latter days arose ; 
Her deliverer stepp'd from the camp of her 

foes: 
He spake; — the great and the proud gave 

way, 
And the dawn began which shall end in day ! 



ADDUXIT IN TENEBRIS. 

They wish thee strong: they wish tl 
great ! 

Thy royalty is in thy heart ! 
Thy children mourn thy widow'd state 

In funeral groves. Be what thou art ' 



s 



THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. 



Across the world's vainglorious waste, 
As o'er Egyptian sands, in thee, 

God's hieroglyph, His shade is cast — 
A bar of black from Calvary. 

Around thee many a land and race 
Have wealth or sway or name in story ; 

But on that brow discrown'd we trace 
The crown expiatory. 



THE CAUSE. 



The kings are dead that raised their swords 

In Erin's right of old ; 
The bards that dash'd from fearless chords 

Her name and praise lie cold : 
Bat flx'd as fate her altars stand ; 

Unchanged, like God, her faith ; 
Her Church still holds in equal hand 

The keys of life and death. 



As well call up the sunken reefs 

Atlantic waves rush o'er, 
As that old time of native chiefs 

And Gaelic kings restore ! 
Things heavenly rise : things earthly sink: — 

God works through Nature's laws ; 
Sad Isle, 'tis He that bids thee link 

Thine Action with thy Cause ! 



GRAY HARPER, REST! 

Gray Harper, rest ! — O maid, the Fates 
On those^sad lips have press'd their seal ! 

Thy song's sweet rage but indicates 
That mystery it can ne'er reveal. 

Take comfort ! Vales and lakes and skies, 
Blue seas, and sunset-girdled shore, 

Love-beaming brows, love-lighted eyes. 
Contend like thee. What can they more 5 



SONNET. 

SABSFIELD AND CLARE. 

Silent they slumber in the unwholesome 

shade : 
And why lament them? Virtue, too, can 

die: 
Old wisdom labors in extremity ; 
And greatness stands aghast, and cries for 

aid 
Full often : Aye, and honor grows dis- 
mayed ; 
And all those eagle hopes, so pure and high, 
Which soar aloft in youth's unclouded sky, 
Drop dustward, self-subverted, self-betray'd. 
Call it not joy to walk the immortal floor 
Of this exulting earth, nor peace to lie 
Where the throng'd marbles awe the passer 

by: 
True rest is this ; the task, the mission o'er, 
To bide God's time, and man's neglect to 

bear — 
Hail, loyal Sarsfield ! Hail, high-hearted 

Clare ! 



SONG. 



A brighten'd Sorrow veils her face, 

Sweet thoughts with thoughts forlorn, 
And playful sadness, like the grace 

Of some autumnal morn ; 
When birds new-waked, like sprightly elves, 

The languid echoes rouse, 
And infant Zephyrs make themselves 

Familiar with old boughs. 



All round our hearts the Maiden's hair 

Its own soft shade doth fling : 
Her sigh perfumes the forest air, 

Like eve — but eve in Spring ! 
When Spring precipitates her flow; 

And Summer, swift to greet her, 
Breathes, every night, a warmer glow 

Half through the dusk to meet her. 



THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VEllE. 



ST. COLUMKILL'S FAREWELL TO 
THE ISLE OF ARRAN, 

ON SETTING SAIL FOR IONA. 1 

{From the Gaelic.) 

Farewell to Arran Isle,' farewell ! 

I steer for Hy :' my heart is sore : — 
The breakers burst, the billows swell 

'Twixt Arran Isle and Alba's' shore. 

Thus spake the Son of God, "Depart !" 

Arran Isle, God's will be done ! 
By Angels throng'd this hour thou art : 

1 eit within my bark alone. 

O Modan, well for thee the while ! 

Fair falls thy lot, and well art thou ! 
Thy seat is set in Arran Isle : 

Eastward to Alba turns my prow. 

O Arran, Sun of all the West ! 

My heart is thine ! As sweet to close 
Our dying eyes in thee, as rest 

Where Peter and where Paul repose ! 

O Arran, Sun of all the West ! 

My heart in thee its grave hath found : 
'He walks in regions of the blest 

The man that hears thy church-bells' 
sound ! 

O Arran blest, O Arran blest ! 

Accursed the man that loves not thee I 
The dead man cradled in thy breast — 

No demon s-cares him: well is he. 

Each Sunday Gabriel from on high 
(For so did Christ our Lord ordain) 

Thy masses comes to sanctify, 
With fifty Angels in his train. 

Each Monday Michael issues forth 
To bless anew each sacred fane : 

ILach Tuesday cometh Raphael 

To bless pure hearth and golden grain. 

• From the prose translation in vol. i. of the Transactions of 
Jie Gaelic Society, Dublin, 1808. 

' In the Bay of Galway. It was one of the chief retreats of 
the Itish monks and missionaries, and still abounds in relig- 
ions memorials. 



Each Wednesday cometh Uriel, 

Each Thursday Sariel, fresh from God ; 

Each Friday cometh Ramael 

To bless thy stones and bless thy sod. 

Each Saturday comes Mary, 

Comes Babe oh arm, 'mid heavenly hosts ! 
O Arran, near to heaven is he 

That hears God's Angels bless thy coasts I 



SONNET. 

CHRISTIAN EDUCATION. 






What man can check the aspiring life that 

thrills 
And glows through all this multitudinous 

wood ; 
That throbs in each minutest leaf and bud, 
And, like a mighty wave ascending, tills 
More high each day with flowers the encir- 
cling hills ? — 
From earth's maternal heart her ancient 

blood 
Mounts to her breast in milk ! her breath 

doth brood 
O'er fields Spring-flush'd round unimpris- 

on'd rills ! 
Such life is also in the breast of Man ; 
Such blood is at the heart of every Nation, 
Not to be chain'd by Statesman's frown oi 

ban. 
Hope and be strong: fear and be weak! 

The seed 
Is sown : be ours the prosperous growth to 

feed 
With food, not poison — Christian Education I 



DEATH. 



God's creature, Death ! thou art not God's 

compeer ! 
An Anarch sceptred in primordial night ; 
Immortal Life's eternal opposite : — 
Nor art thou some new Portent sudden and 

drear 
Blotting, like sea-born cloud, a noontide 

sphere : 



THE POEMS OF AUBREY DE VERE. 



Thou art but Adam's forfeit by the might 
Of Calvary sunset-steep'd, and changed to 

light ; 
To God man's access through the gates of 

Fear! 
Penance thou art for them that penance 

need; 
To souls detach'd a gentle ritual ; 
Time's game reiterate, and with lightning 

speed 
Play'd o'er; through life a desert Baptist's 

call. 
Judgment and Death are woful things, we 

know: 
Yet Judgment without Death were tenfold 

woe ! 



THE GRAVES OF TYRCONNEL AND 
TYRONE, 

ON SAN PIBTBO, IN MONTOEIO. 

Withtn Saint Peter's fane, that kindly 

hearth 
Where exiles crown'd their earthly loads 

down cast, 
The Scottish Kings repose, their wanderings 

past, 
in death more royal thrice than in their 

birth. 



Near them, within a church of narrower girth 
But with dilated memories yet more vast, 
Sad Ulster's Princes find their rest at last, 
Their home the holiest spot, save one, on 

earth. 
This is that Mount which saw Saint Petei 

die! 
Where stands yon dome stood once thai 

Cross reversed : 
From this dread Hill, a Western Calvary, 
The Empire and that Synagogue accurst 
Clash'd two ensanguined hands — fike Cain — 

in one. 
Sleep where the Apostle slept, Tyrconnel 

and Tyrone ! 



WAYSIDE FOUNTAINS. 

As o'er the marble brink you lean, 

This Well, glad guest, becomes your 
mirror : — 
May every glass in which are seen 
Your spirit's face, your moral mien,* 
Cause you as little terror. 

In this cool shadow, grateful guest ! 

Repose, and humbly drink ; 
And muse on Him who found no rest: 

And now, and always think 
Of that, His last great thirst, which He 
Endured for those thou lov'st, and thee. 



POEMS OF THOMAS PARNELL. 



THE HERMIT. 



Far in a wild, unknown to public view, 
From youth to age a reverend hermit grew; 
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, 
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal 

well: 
Remote from men, with God he pass'd the 

days, 
Prayer all his business, all his pleasure 

praise. 
A life so sacred, such serene repose, 
Seem'd Heaven itself, till one suggestion 

rose — 
That Vice should triumph, Virtue, Vice 

obey. 
This sprung some doubt of Providence's 

sway: 
His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, 
And all the tenor of his soul is lost. 
So when a smooth expanse receives imprest 
Calm Nature's image on its watery breast, 
Down bend the banks, the trees depending 

grow, 
And skies beneath with answering colors 

glow : 
But if a stone the gentle sea divide, 
Swift ruffling circles curl on every side, 
And glimmering fragments of a broken Sun, 
Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run. 
To clear this doubt, to know the world by 

sight, 
To find if books, or swains, report it right, 
(For yet by swains alone the world he knew, 
Whose feet came wandering o'er the nightly 

dew), 
He quits his cell ; the pilgrim-staff he bore, 



And fix'd the scallop in his hat before; 
Then with the Sun a rising journey went, 
Sedate to think, and watching each event. 
The morn was wasted in the pathless 

grass, 
And long and lonesome was the wild to 

pass ; 
But when the southern Sun had warm'd the 

day, 
A youth came posting o'er a crossing way ; 
His raiment decent, his complexion fair, 
And soft in graceful ringlets waved his hair. 
Then near approaching, " Father, hail !" he 

cried, 
"And hail, my son," the reverend sire re- 
plied ; 
Words followed words, from question answer 

flow'd, 
And talk of various kind deceived the road ; 
Till each with other pleased, and loth to 

part, 
While in their age they differ, join in heart. 
Thus stands an aged elm in ivy bound, 
Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around. 

Now sunk the Sun ; the closing hour of day 
Came onward, mantled o'er with sober gray ; 
Nature in silence bid the world repose ; 
When near the road a stately palace rose : 
There by the Moon through ranks of trees 

they pass, 
Whose verdure crown'd their sloping sides 

of grass. 
It chanced the noble master of the dome 
Still made his house the wandering strati' 

ger's home • 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS PARNELL. 



Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise, 
Proved the vain flourish of expensive ease. 
The pair arrive : the liveried servants wait ; 
Their lord receives them at the pompous 

gate. 
The table groans with costly piles of food, 
And all is more than hospitably good. 
Then led to rest, the day's long toil they 

drown, 
Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of 

down. 
At length 'tis morn, and at the dawn of 

day, 
Along the wide canals the zephyrs play ; 
Fresh o'er the gay parterres the breezes 

■ creep, 
And shake the neighboring wood to banish 

sleep. 
Up rise the guests, obedient to the call : 
An early banquet deck'd the splendid hall ; 
Rich luscious wine a golden goblet graced, 
Which the kind master forced the guests to 

taste. 
Then, pleased and thankful, from the porch 

they go : 
And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe: 
His cup was vanish'd ; for in secret guise 
The younger guest purloin'd the glittering 

pfize. 

As one who spies a serpent in his way, 

Glistening and basking in the summer ray, 

Disorder'd stops to shun the danger near, 

Then walks with faintness on, and looks 

with fear, 
So seem'd the sire; when far upon the road, 
The shining spoil his wily partner show'd. 
He stopp'd with silence, walk'd with trem- 
bling heart, 
And much he wish'd, but durst not ask to 

part: 
Murmuring he lifts his eyes, and thinks it 

hard 
That generous actions meet a base reward. 
While thus they pass, the Sun his glory 

shrouds, 
The changing skies hang out their sable 

clouds ; 
A sound in air presaged approaching rain, 
And beasts to covert scud across the plain. 
Warn'd by the signs, the wandering pair 

retreat, 
To seek for shelter at a neighboring seat. 



'Twas built with turrets on a rising ground, 

And strong, and large, and unimproved 
around ; 

Its owner's temper, timorous and severe, 

Unkind and griping, caused a desert there. 
As near the miser's heavy doors they 
drew, 

Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew ; 

The nimble lightning mix'd with showers 
began, 

And e'er their heads loud rolling thunders 
ran. 

Here long they knock, but knock or call in 
vain, 

Driven by the wind, and batter'd by the rain. 

At length some pity warm'd the master's 
breast, 

('Twas then his threshold first received a 
guest) ; 

Slow creaking turns the door with jealous 
care, 

And half he welcomes in the shivering pair ; 

One frugal fagot lights the naked walls, 

And Nature's fervor through their limbs re- 
calls : 

Bread of the coarsest sort, with eager wine, 

(Each hardly granted), served them both to 
dine; 

And when the tempest first appealed to 
cease, 

A ready warning bid them part in peace. 
With still remark the pondering hermit 
view'd, 

In one so rich, a life so poor and rude ; 

" And why should such," within himself he 
cried, 

" Lock the lost wealth a thousand want be- 
side?" 

But what new marks of wonder soon take 
place 

In every settling feature of his face ; 

When from his vest the young companion 
bore 

That cup, the generous landlord own'd be- 
fore, 

And paid profusely with the precious bowl 

The stinted kindness of this churlish soul. 
But now the clouds in airy tumult fly ! 

The Sun emerging opes an azure sky ; 

A fresher green the smelling leaves display, 

And, glittering as they tremble, cheer the 
day: 



474 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS PARNELL. 



The weather courts them from the poor re- 
treat, 
And the glad master bolts the wary gate. 
While hence they walk, the pilgrim's 
bosom wrought 
With all the travel of uncertain thought; 
His partner's acts without their cause ap- 
pear, 
'Twas there a vice, and seem'd a madness 

here: 
Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes, 
Lost and confounded with the various shows. 
Now Night's dim shades again involve 
the sky, 
Again the wanderers want a place to lie, 
Again they search, and find a lodging nigh, 
The soil improved around, the mansion neat, 
And neither poorly low, nor idly great : 
It seem'd to speak its master's turn of mind, 
Content, and not to praise, but virtue kind. 
Hither the walkers turn with weary feet, 
Then bless the mansion, and the master 

greet : 
Their greeting fair, bestow'd with modest 

guise, 
The courteous master hears, and thus replies : 
" Without a vain, without a grudging 
heart, 
To him who gives us all, I yield a part ; 
From him you come, for him accept it here, 
A frank and sober, more than costly cheer." 
He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread, 
Then talk of virtue till the time of bed, 
When the grave household round his hall 

repair, 
Warn'd by a bell, and close the hours with 
prayer. 
At length the world, renew'd by calm re- 
pose, 
Was strong for toil, the dappled Morn 

arose ; 
Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept 
Near the closed cradle where an infant slept, 
And writhed his neck : the landlord's little 

pride, 
O strange return ! grew black, and gasp'd, 

and died. 
Horror of horrors ! what ! his only son ! 
How look'd our hermit when the fact was 

done; 
>V Hell, though Hell's black jaws in sunder 
part, 



And breathe blue fire, could moie assault 

his heart. 
Confused, and struck with silence at the 

deed, 
Ho flies, but trembling, fails to fly with 

speed. 
His steps the youth pursues ; the country 

lay 
Perplex'd with roads, a servant show'd the 

way. 
A river cross'd the path ; the passage o'er 
Was nice to find ; the servant trod before ; 
Long arms of oaks an open bridge supplied, 
And deep the waves beneath the bending 

glide. 
The youth, who seem'd to watch a time to sin T 
Approach'd the careless guide, and thrust 

him in ; 
Plunging he falls, and rising lifts his head, 
Then flashing turns, and sinks among the 

dead. 
Wild, sparkling rage inflames the father's 

eyes, 
He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries, 
" Detested wretch !" — But scarce his speech 

began, 
When the strange partner seem'd no longer 



His youthful face grew more serenely i 

His robe turn'd white, and fiow'd upon his 

feet; 
Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair , 
Celestial odors breathe through purpled air ; 
And wings, whose colors glitter'd on the 

day, 
Wide at his back their gradual plumes dis- 
play. 
The form ethereal burst upon his sight, 
And moves in all the majesty of light. 

Though loud at first the pilgrim's passioD 
grew, 
Sudden he gazed, and wist not what to do ; 
Surprise in secret chains his words suspends, 
And in a calm his settling temper ends. 
But silence here the beauteous angel broke, 
(The voice of music ravish'd as he spoke). 
"Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice 
unknown, 
In sweet memorial rise before the throne : 
These charms, success in our bright region 

find, 
And force an angel down, to calm thy mind ; 






THE POEMS OF THOMAS PARNELL. 



For this, commission'd, I forsook the sky : 
Nay, cease to kneel — thy fellow-servant I. 
"Then know the truth of government 

divine, 
And let these scruples be no longer thine. 
"The Maker justly claims that world he 

made, 
In this the right of Providence is laid ; 
Its sacred majesty through all depends • 
On using second means to work his ends : 
'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human 

eye, 
The power exerts his attributes on high, 
Your actions uses, nor controls your will, 
And bids the doubting sons of men be still. 
" What strange events can strike with 

more surprise, 
Than those which lately struck thy wonder- 
ing eyes ? 
Yet, taught by these, confess th' Almighty 

j ust, 
And where you can't unriddle, learn to 

trust ! 
" The great, vain man, who fared on costly 

food, 
Whose life was too luxurious to be good ; 
Who made his ivory stands with goblets 

shine, 
And forced his guests to morning draughts 

of wine, 
Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost, 
And still he welcomes, but with less of cost. 
" The mean, suspicious) wretch, whose 

bolted dooi 
Ne'er moved in duty to the wandering poor; 
With him I left the cup, to teach his mind 
That Heaven can bless, if mortals will be 

kind. 
Conscious of wanting worth, he views the 

bowl, 
And feels compassion touch his grateful soul. 
Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead, 
With heaping coals of fire upon his head; 
In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow, 
And loose from dross the silver runs below. 
" Long had our pious friend in virtue trod, 
But now the child half-wean'd his heart 

from God ; 
(Child of his age) for him he lived in pain, 
And measured back his steps to Earth again. 
To what excesses had his dotage run ? 
But God, to save the father, took the son. 



To all but thee, in fits he seem'd to go, 

(And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow :) 

The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust, 

Now owns in tears the punishment was just. 
" But now had all his fortune felt a wrack, 

Had that false servant sped in safety back ; 

This night his treasured heaps he meant to 
steal, 

And what a fund of charity would fail ! 

Thus Heaven instructs thy mind : this trial 
o'er, 

Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more." 
On sounding pinions here the youth with- 
drew; 

The sage stood wondering as the seraph 
flew. 

Thus look'd Elisha when, to mount on high, 

His master took the chariot of the sky ; 

The fiery pomp ascending left to view ; 

The prophet gazed, and wish'd to follow too. 
The bending hermit here a prayer begun, 

"Lord! as in Heaven, on Marth thy will be 
done." 

Then gladly turning sought his ancient 
place, 

And pass'd a life of piety and peace. 



A NIGHT-PIECE ON DEATH. 

By the blue taper's trembling light, 
No more I waste the wakeful night, 
Intent with endless view to pore 
The schoolmen and the sages o'er : 
Their books from wisdom widely stray, 
Or point at best the longest way. 
I'll seek a readier path, and go 
Where wisdom's surely taught below. 
How deep yon azure dyes the sky ! 
Where orbs of gold unnumber'd lie, 
While through their ranks in silver pride 
The nether crescent seems to glide. 
The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe, 
The lake is smooth and clear beneath, 
Where once again the spangled show 
Descends to meet our eyes below. 
The grounds, which on the right aspire, 
In dimness from the view retire : 
The left presents a place of graves, 
Whose wall the silent water laves. 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS PARNELL. 



That steeple guides thy doubtful sight 
Among the livid gleams of night. 
There pass with melancholy state 
By all thp solemn heaps of Fate, 
And think, as softly-sad you tread 
Above the venerable dead, 
Time icas, like thee, they life possest, 
And time shall be, that thou shalt rest. 

Those with bending osier bound, 
That nameless heave the crumbled ground, 
Qr'ck to the glancing thought disclose 
Wnere toil and poverty repose. 

The flat smooth stones that bear a name, 
The chisel's slender help to fame, 
(Which ere our set of friends decay 
Their frequent steps may wear away), 
A middle race of mortals own, 
Men, half-ambitious, all unknown. 

The marble tombs that rise on high, 
Whose dead in vaulted arches lie, 
Whose pillars swell with sculptured stones, 
Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones, 
These, all the poor remains of state, 
Adorn the rich, or praise the great ; 
Who, while on Earth in fame they live, 
Are senseless of the fame they give. 
Ha ! while I gaze, pale Cynthia fades, 
The bursting earth unveils the shades ! 
All slow, and wan, and wrapp'd with shrouds, 
They rise in visionary crowds, 
And all with sober accent cry, 
" Think, mortal, what it is to die." 

Now from yon black and funeral yew, 
That bathes the charnel-house with dew, 
Methinks, I hear a voice begin ; 
(Ye ravens, cease your croaking din, 
Te tolling clocks, no time resound 
O'er the long lake and midnight ground 1) 
It sends a peal of hollow groans, 
Thus speaking from among the bones : 

" When men my scythe and darts supply, 
How great a king of fears am I ! 
They view me like the last of things ; 
They make, and then they draw, my strings. 
Fools ! if you less provoked your fears, 
No more my spectre-form appears. 
Death's but a path that must be trod, 
If man would ever pass to God ; 
A port of calms, a state to ease 
From the rough rage of swelling seas." 

Why then thy flowing sable stoles, 
Deep pendent cypress, mourning poleB, 



Loose scarfs to fall athwart thy weedo, 
Long palls, drawn hearses, cover'd steeds, 
And plumes of black, that, as they tread, 
Nod o'er the escutcheons of the dead ? 

Nor can the parted body know, 
Nor wants the soul these forms of woe ; 
As men who long in prison dwell, 
With lamps that glimmer round the tell. 
Whene'er their suffering years are mil, 
Spring forth to greet the glittering Sun . 
Such joy, though far transcending sense. 
Have pious souls at parting hd^ce. 
On Earth, and in the body pl/.ced, 
A few, and evil years, they .vaste : 
But when their chains are ^ast aside, 
See the glad scene unfoldiug wide, 
Clap the glad wing, and tjwer away, 
And mingle with the blase of day. 






AN ALLEGORY ON MAN. 

A thoughtfux being, long and spare, 
Our race of mortals call him Care, 
( Were Homer living, well he knew 
What name the gods have call'd him too), 
With fine mechanic genius wrought, 
And loved to work, though no one bought. 
This being, by a model bred 
In Jove's eternal sable head, 
Contrived a shape empower'd to breathe, 
And be the worldling here beneath. 

The man rose, staring like a stake ; 
Wondering to see himself awake ! 
Then look'd so wise, before he knew 
The business he was made to do — 
That, pleased to see with what a grace 
He gravely show'd his forward face, 
Jove talk'd of breedinsr him on high, 
An under-something of the sky. 

But ere he gave the mighty nod, 
Which ever binds a poet's god, 
(For which his curls ambrosial shake, 
And mother Earth's obliged to quake), 
He saw old mother Earth arise, 
She stood confess'd before his eyes ; 
But not with what we read she wore, 
A castle for a crown before, 
Nor with long streets and longer roads 
Dansjlinsr behind her, like commodes: 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS PARNELL. 



As yet with wreaths alone she drest, 
And trail'd a landscape-painted vest. 
Then thrice she raised, as Ovid said, 
And thrice she boW*d her weighty head : 

Her honors made, " Great Jove," she cried, 
" This thing was fashion'd from my side : 
His hands, his heart, his head are mine ; 
Then what hast thou to call him thine ?" 

" Nay, rather ask," the monarch said, ' 
" What boots his hand, his heart, his head ? 
Were what I gave removed away, 
Thy part's an idle shape of clay." 

" Halves, more than halves !" cried honest 
Care, 
" Tour pleas would make your titles fair. 
You claim the body, you the soul, 
But I, who join'd them, claim the whole." 

Thus with the gods debate began, 
On such a trivial cause as man. 
And can celestial tempers rage ? 
Quoth Virgil, in a later age. 

As thus they wrangled, Time came by ; 
(There's none that paint him such as I, 
For what the fabling ancients sung 
Makes Saturn old, when Time was youngj. 
As yet his winters had not shed 
Their silver honors on his head ; 
He just had got his pinions free 
From his old sire, Eternity. 
A serpent girdled round he wore, 
The tail within the mouth, before; 
By which our almanacs are clear 
That learned Egypt meant the year. 
A stair he carried, where on high 
A glass was fix'd to measure by, 
As amber boxes made a show 
For heads of canes an age ago. 

His vest, for day and night, was pied ; 
A bending sickle arm'd his side ; 
And Spring's new months his train adorn : 
The other seasons were unborn. 

Known by the gods, as near he draws, 
They make him umpire of the cause. 
O'er a low trunk his arm he laid, 
Where since his hours a dial made ; 
Then leaning heard the nice debate, 
And thus pronounced the words of Fate: 

" Since body from the parent Earth, 
And soul from Jove received a birth, 
Return they where they first began ; 
But since their union makes the man, 



Till Jove and Earth shall part the.se two, 
To Care who join'd them, man is due." 
He said, and sprung with swift career 
To trace a circle for the yea»r : 
Where ever since the seasons wheel, 
And tread on one another's heel. 

" 'Tis well," said Jove, and for consent 
Thundering he shook the firmament. 
" Our umpire Time shall have his way, 
With Care I let the creature stay : 
Let business vex him, avarice blind, 
Let doubt and knowledge rack his mind, 
Let error act, opinion speak, 
And want afflict, and sickness break, 
And anger burn, dejection chill, 
And joy distract, and sorrow kill, 
Till, arm'd by Care, and taught to mow, 
Time draws the long destructive blow ; 
And wasted man, whose quick decay 
Comes hurrying on before his day, 
Shall only find by this decree, 
The soul flies sooner back to me." 



HYMN TO CONTENTMENT. 

Lovely, lasting peace of mind, 
Sweet delight of human kind ! 
Heavenly born, and bred on high, 
To crown the favorites of the sky 
With more of happiness below 
Than victors in a triumph know ! 
Whither, oh whither art thou fled, 
To lay thy meek contented head ; 
What happy region dost thou please 
To make the seat of calms and ease? 

Ambition searches all its sphere 
Of pomp and state to meet thee there. 
Increasing avarice would find 
Thy presence in its gold enshrined. 
The bold adventurer ploughs his way 
Through rocks amidst the foaming sea, 
To gain thy love, and then perceives 
Thou wert not in the rocks and waves. 
The silent heart, which grief assails, 
Treads soft and lonesome o'er the vales, 
Sees daisies open, rivers run, 
And seeks (as I have vainly done) 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS PARNELL. 



Amusing thought ; but learns to know 

That solitude's the nurse of woe. 

No real happiness is found 

In trailing purple o'er the ground: 

Or in a soul exalted high, 

To range the circuit of the sky, 

Converse with stars above, and know 

All nature in its forms below: 

The rest it seeks, in seeking dies, 

And doubts at last, for knowledge, rise. 

Lovely, lasting peace, appear: 
This world itself, if thou art here, 
Is once again with Eden blest, 
And man contains it in his breast. 

'Twas thus, as under shade I stood, 
1 sung my wishes to the wood, 
And, lost in thought, no more perceived 
The branches whisper as they waved: 
It seem'd as all the quiet place 
Confess'd the presence of His grace. ■ 
When thus she spoke : Go, rule thy will, 
Bid thy wild passions all be still, 
Know God — and bring thy heart to 

know 
The joys which from religion flow: 
Then every grace shall prove its guest, 
And I'll be there to crown the rest. 

Oh ! by yonder mossy seat, 
In my hours of sweet retreat. 



Might I thus my soul employ, 
With sense of gratitude and joy ; 
Raised as ancient prophets were, 
In heavenly vision, praise, and prayer, 
Pleasing all men, hurting none, 
Pleased and bless'd with God alone : 
Then while the gardens take my sight 
With all the colors of delight : 
While silver waters glide along, 
To please my ear and court my song : 
I'll lift my voice, and tune my string, 
And thee, great Source of nature, sing. 

The sun that walks his airy way, 
To light the world and give the day; 
The moon that shines with borrow'd 

light ; 
The stars that gild the gloomy night; 
The seas that roll unnumber'd waves; 
The wood that spreads its shady leaves; 
The field whose ears conceal the grain, 
The yellow treasure of the plain ; — 
All of these, and all I see, 
Should be sung, and sung by me : 
They speak their Maker as they can, 
But want and ask the tongue of man. 



Go search among your idle 
Your busy or your vain extremes 
And find a life of equal bliss, 
Or own the next begun in this. 



POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 

INTRODUCTION" AND MEMOIR 

BY JOHN MITCHEL. 



At Mallow, on the river Blackwater, in the county of Cork, and some time in the 
jear 1814, Thomas Osbobne Davis was born. His father was by birth a Welshman, but 
long settled in the south of Ireland, and Davis, ever proud of his Cymric blood, and of his 
kindred with the other Gaelic family of Milesians, named himself through life a Celt. 
"The Celt" was his nom de plume; and the Celtic music and literature, the Celtic lan- 
guage, and habits, and history, were always his fondest study. Partly from the profound 
sympathy of his nature with the fiery, vehement, affectionate, gentle, and bloody race that 
bred him, — his affinity with "the cloudy and lightning genius of the Gael," — partly from 
his hereditary aversion to the coarser and more energetic Anglo-Saxon, — and partly from 
the chivalry of his character, which drew him to the side of all oppressed nations every- 
where over the earth, — he chose to write Celt upon his front; he would live and die a Celt. 

The scenes of his birth and boyhood nursed and cherished this feeling. Amongst the 
hills of Munster — on the banks of Ireland's most beauteous river, the Avondlieu, Spenser's 
" Auniduff," — and amidst a simple people who yet retained most of the venerable usages 
of olden time, their wakes and funeraWflomes, their wedding merrymakings, and simple 
hospitality with a hundred thousand welcome^ he imbibed that passionate and deep love, 
not for the people only, but for the very soil, rocks, woods, waters, and skies of his native 
land, which gives to his writings, both in prose and poetry, their chief value and charm. 

He received a good education, and entered Trinity College, Dublin. During his 
■university course his reading was discursive, omnivorous, by no means confined within the 
text-books and classic authors prescribed for study within the current terms of the college 
curriculum. Therefore he was not a dull, plodding, blockhead " premium-man." He 
came through the course creditably enough, but without distinction; and Wallis, an early 
friend and comrade of Davis, and the author of the first tribute to his memory and his 
genius, in the " Introduction " prefixed to this edition of his Poems, says that "during 
his college course, and for some years after, while he was very generally liked, he had, 
unless, perhaps, with some few who knew him intimately, but a moderate reputation for 
high ability of any kind." In short, his moral and intellectual growth was slow; he had 
no personal ambition for mere distinction, and never through all his life did anything for 
effect. Thus he spent his youth in storing his own mind and training his own heart; 
never wrote or spoke for the public till he approached his thirtieth year; exerted faculty 
after faculty (unsuspected by himself as well as by others) just as the occasion for their 
exertion arose, and nobody else was at hand able or willing to do the needful work; and 
"when he died at the age of thirty-one, those only who knew him best felt that the world 
had been permitted to see but the infancy of a great genius. 



INTRODUCTION AND .MEMOIR. 



His poetry is but a fragment of the man. lie was no boy-rhymer; and brimful as his 
eye and soul were of the beauties and glories of Nature, he never felt a necessity to utter 
them in song. In truth he did not himself suspect that he could make verses until the 
establishment of the " Nation" newspaper, in which, from the first, he was the principal 
writer; and then, from a calm, deliberate conviction that amongst other agencies for 
arousing national spirit, fresh, manly, vigorous, national songs and ballads must by no 
means be neglected, he conscientiously set to work to manufacture the article wanted. 
The result was that torrent of impassioned poesy which flashed through the columns of 
the " Nation," week by week, and made many an eager boy, from the Giant's Causeway 
to Cape Clear, cut open the weekly sheet with a hand shaken by excitement, — to kindle 
his heart with the glowing thought of the nameless " Celt." 

The defeat of Ireland and her cause, and the utter prostration into which she has 
fallen, may, in the minds of many, deprive the labors of Davis of some portion of their 
interest. If his aspirations had been made realities, and his lessons had ripened into 
action; if the British standard had gone down, torn and trampled before the green banner, 
in this our day, as it had done before on many a well-fought field, — then all men would 
have loved to trace the infancy and progress of the triumphant cause, — the lives and 
actions of those who had toiled in the sweat of their brows to make its triumph possible. 
It is the least, indeed, of the penalties, yet it is one of the surest penalties of defeat — that 
the world will neglect you and your claims; will not care to ask why you were defeated, 
nor care to inquire whether you deserved success. 

Yet to some minds it will be always interesting to understand instead of misunder' 
standing even a baffled cause. And to such, the Poems of Davis are presented as the 
fullest and finest expression of the national sentiment that in 1843 shook the British 
empire to its base, and was buried ignominiously in the Famine-graves of '48 — not without 
hope of a happy resurrection. 

To characterize shortly the poetry of Davis — its main strength and beauty lies in its 
simple passion. Its execution is unequal; and in some of the finest of his pieces any 
magazine-critic can point out weak or unmusical verses. But all through these ringing 
lyrics there is a direct, manly, hearty, humaji feeling, with here and there a line or passage 
of such passing melody and beauty that once read it haunts the ear and heart forever. 

" What thoughts were mine in early youth ! 
Like some old Irish song. 
Brimful of love, and life, and truth, 
My spirit gushed along." 

And in that exquisite song, " The Rivers." Let any one who has an ear to hear, and a 
tongue to speak, read aloud the fifth stanza — 

"But far kinder the woodlands of rich Convamore, 
And more gorgeous the turrets of saintly Lismore ; 
There the stream, like a maiden 
With love overladen, 
Pants wild on each shore." 

Who that has once seen will ever forget old Lord Clare rising at the head of his mess-table 
in the " Battle-eve of the Brigade" — 

"The veteran arose, like an uplifted lance, 
Saying, Comrades, a health to the monarch of France ! " 



■ 



INTRODUCTION AND MEMOIE. 



His " Lament for the death of Owen Eoe " is the very heart and soul of a musical, wild, 
and miserable Irish caoine (the coronach, or noeniee) — 

" Wail, wail him through the Island ! Weep, weep for our pride ! 
"Would that on the battle-field our gallant, chief had died ! 
Weep the victor of Benburb — weep him, young men and old ; 
Weep for him, ye women— your Beautiful lies cold ! 

" We thought you would not die — we were sure you would not go, 
And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's cruel blow — 
Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky— 
Oh ! why did you leave us, Owen 1 Why did you die ? " 

For his battle-ballads maybe instanced "Fontenoy," and the " Sack of Baltimore." And 
his love-songs are the genuine pleadings of longing, yearning, devouring passion. Perhaps, 
however, the most characteristic, though far from the finest of all these songs, is that be- 
ginning " Oh ! for a steed !" There he gives bold and broad expression to that feeling 
which we have already described as a leading constituent of his noble nature, — sympathy 
with conquered nations, assertion and espousal of their cause against force and fate, — anoT- 
a mortal detestation and defiance of that conquering " energy" which impels the civilizing; 
bullies of mankind to " bestride the narrow world like a Colossus." This sympathy it- 
was, which so strongly attracted him to the books of Augustin Thierry, whose writings he- 
often recommended as the most picturesquely faithful and heartily human of all historical 
works. 

Space would fail us to give anything like an adequate narrative of Davis's political 
toils through the three last busy years of his life. It is not detracting from any man's 
just claims to assert, what all admit, that he, more than any one man, inspired, created, 
f and moulded the strong national feeling that possessed the Irish people in '43, made 
O'Connell a true uncrowned king, and 

"Placed the strength of all the land 
Like a falchion in his hand." 

The " government," at last, with fear and trembling, came to issue with the " Eepeal 
Conspirators" in the law courts. Well they might fear and tremble. One movement of 
O'Connell's finger — for only he could give the signal — and within a month no vestige of 
British power could have remained in Ireland. For O'Connell's refusal to wield that 
power, then unquestionably in his hands, may God forgive him ! He went into prison on 
the 30th of May, 1844, stayed there three months — came out in a triumph of perfect 
paroxysm of popular enthusiasm stronger than ever. Yet from that hour the cause de- 
clined; nothing answering expectation, or commensurate with the power at his command, 
was done or attempted. " Physical force " was made a bugbear to frighten women and 
children; priests were instructed to denounce "rash young men" from their altars; and 
" Law " — London law, was thrust down the national throat. 

Davis saw this, vainly resisted it, and made head against it for awhile. He labored 
in the "Nation" more zealously than ever; but his intimate comrades perceived him 
changed; and after a short illness he died at his mother's house, Baggot- street, Dublin, on 
the 16th of September, 1845. 

The " Nation " lost its strength and its inspiration. The circle of friends and comrades, 
— the "Young Ireland party," as they were called, — that revolved around this central figure, 



INTRODUCTION AND MEMOIR. 



that were kept in their spheres by the attraction of his strong nature, taking their literary 
tasks from his hands, drawing instruction from his varied accomplishments, and courage and 
zeal from his kindly and cheerful converse, soon fell into confusion, alienation, helplessness. 
■Gloom gathered round the cause, and famine, wasting the bone and vigor of the nation, 
made all his friends feel, as the confederate Irish felt when Owen Roe died of poison, like 

" Sheep without a shepherd, when snow shut out the sky." 

MaeNevin, who idolized him, was cut suddenly from all his moorings, and like a rudderless 
ship drifted and whirled, until he died in a mad-house. Of others, it would be invidious 
to trace the career in this place. Enough to say, that the most dangerous foe English 
dominion in Ireland has had in our generation is buried in the cemetery of Mount Jerome, 
in the southern suburbs of Dublin. 

Fragmentary and hasty as are the compositions in prose or verse which Davis left 
behind him, they are the best and most authentic exponent of the principles and aspira- 
tions of the remnant of his disciples. 






w^m 





1 - « 1 I ! . 1 sua 








THE PATRIOT BISHOP OF ROSS. 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



:pa.:rt i. 

Staiional §allabs aitir Songs. 



" If atiohai. Fsstbt ta the very flowering of the soul, the great- 
ait evldenoe of Its health, the greatest excellence of its beauty. 
Its melody la balsam to the senses. It Is the playfellow of Child- 
b*o£, '.793a aio th3 companion of Manhood, consoles Age. It 
presents the most dramatio events, the largest characters, the 
most impressive scenes, and the deepest passions, in the language 
most familiar to us. It magnifies and ennobles our hearts, our In- 
tellects, oiir country, and our countrymen ; binds uBtothe land by 
Ha condensed and gem-like history— to the future by example and 
by aspiration. It solaces us in travel, flres us in action, prompts 
•ur Invention, sheds a grace beyond the power of luxury round 
ear homes, is the recognized envoy or our minds among all man- 
kind, and to all time."— Davis's Essays. 



THE MEN OF TIPPERAEY. 



Let Britain boast her British hosts, 
About them all right little care we ; 

Not British seas nor British coasta 
Can match the man of Tipperary I 



Tall is his form, his heart is warm, 
His spirit light as any fairy ; 

His wrath is fearful as the storm 

That sweeps The Hills of Tipperary ! 



> VUU -Spirit of tbe Nation," 4to, p. 84, 



Lead him to fight for native land, 
His is no courage cold and wary ; 

The troops live not on earth would stani 
The headlong Charge of Tipperary ! 



Yet meet him in his cabin rude, 

Or dancing with his dark-haired Mary 

You'd swear they knew no other mood 
But Mirth and Love in Tipperary 1 



You're free to share his scanty meal, 

His plighted word he'll never vary- 
In vain they tried with gold and steel 
To shake The Faith of Tipperary ! 



Soft is his cailin's sunny eye, 

Her mien is mild, her step is airy, 

Her heart is fond, her soul is high — 
Oh ! she's the pride of Tipperary ! 



Let Britain brag her motley rag ; 

We'll lift the Green more proud and any ; 
Be mine the lot to bear that flag, 

And head The Men of Tipperary I 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



Though Britain boasts her British hosts, 
About them all right little care we ; 

Give us, to guard our native coasts, 
The Matchless Men of Tipperary ! 



THE KIVERS. 

Aib— Kathleen O'More. 



Tmre's a far-famed Blackwater that runs to 

Loch Neagh, 
There's a fairer Blackwater that runs to the sea, 
The glory of Ulster, 
The beauty of Munster, 

These twin rivers be. 



From the banks of that river Benburb's towers 

arise; 
This stream shines as bright as a tear from 
sweet eyes ; 

This, fond as a young bride ; 
That, with foeman's blood dyed — 
Both dearly we prize. 



Deep sunk in that bed is the sword of Monroe, 
Since, 'twixt it and Donagh, he met Owen Roe, 

And Charlemont's cannon 

Slew many a man on 

These meadows below. 



The shrines of Armagh gleam far over yon lea, 
Nor afar is Dungannon that nursed liberty, 

And yonder Red Hugh 

Marshal Bagenal o'erthrew 

On Beal-an-atha-Buidhe. 1 



But far kinder the woodlands of rich Convamore, 
And more gorgeous the turrets of saintly Lis- 
more; 

There the stream, like a maiden 
With love overladen, 

Pants wild on each shore. 



lVvlgo, 



mouth of the yellow ford. 



Its rocks rise like statues, tall, stately, and fair, 
And the trees, and the flowers, and the moun- 
tains, and air, 

With Wonder's soul near you, 
To share with, and cheer you, 
Make Paradise there. 



I would rove by that stream, ere my flag 1 

rolled ; 
I would fly to these banks, my betrothed to 
fold— 

The pride of our sire-land, 
The Eden of Ireland, 

More precious than gold. 



May their borders be free from oppression and 

blight; 
May their daughters and sons ever fondly unite — 
The glory of Ulster, 
The beauty of Munster, 

Our strength and delight 



GLENGARIFF. 

Ant — CSvllivan'e March. 



I wandered at eve by Glengariff s sweet water, 

Half in the shade, and half in the moon, 
And thought of the time when the Sacsanacb 
slaughter 
Reddened the night and darknened the noon ; 
Mo nuar ! mo nuar ! mo nuar /* I said — 
When I think, in this valley and sky — 
Where true lovers and poets should sigh — 
Of the time when its chieftain O'Sullivan fled.* 



Then my mind went along with O'Sullivan 

inarching 

Over Musk'ry's moors and Ormond's plain, 

His curachs the waves of the Shannon o'erarch- 

ing, 

And his pathway mile-marked with the slain : 






THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



Mo nuar ! mo nuarf mo nuar! I said — 
Yet 'twas better far from you to go, 
And to battle with torrent and foe, 

Than linger as slaves where your sweet waters 
spread. 



But my fancy burst on, like a clan o'er the border, 

To times that seemed almost at hand, 
When grasping her banner, old Erin's Lamh 
Laidir 
Alone shall rule over the rescued land ; 
Obaotho! Obaotho! baotho ." I said — 
Be our marching as steady and strong, 
And freemen our valleys shall throng, 
When the last of our foemen is vanquished and 



THE WEST'S ASLEEP. 

Ira— Th* Brink of the White Socla. 



When all besides a vigil keep, 
The West's asleep, the West's asleep- 
Alas! and well may Erin weep, 
When Connaught lies in slumber deep. 
There lake and plain smile fair and free, 
'Mid rocks — their guardian chivalry — 
Sing oh ! let man learn liberty 
From crashing wind and lashing sea. 



That chainless wave and lovely land 
Freedom and Nationhood demand — 
Be sure, the great God never planned, 
For slumbering slaves, a home bo grand. 
And, long, a brave and haughty race 
Honored and sentinelled the place — 
Sing oh ! not even their sons' disgrace 
Can quite destroy their glory's trace. 



For often, in O'Connor's van', 
To triumph dashed each Connaught dan- 
Am] fleet as deer the Normans ran 
Through Corlieu's Pass and Ardrahan. 
And later times saw deeds as brave ; 
And glory guards Clanricard's grave — 



Sing oh! they died their land to save, 
At Aughrim's slopes and Shannon's wave. 



And if, when all a vigil keep, 

The West's asleep, the West's asleep — 

Alas ! and well may Erin weep, 

That Connaught lies in slumber deep. 

But — hark ! — some voice like thunder spake, 

" The West's awake, the West's awake" — 

" Sing oh ! hurra ! let England quake, 

We'll watch till death for Erin's sake !" 



OH! FOR A STEED. 

Am— Original. 
I. 

Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, and a blazing 

scimitar, 
To hunt from beauteous Italy the Austrian's red 
hussar. 

To mock their boasts, 

And strew their hosts, 

And scatter their flags af&«. 



Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, and dear Po- 
land gathered aroujd, 
To smite her circle jf savage foes, and smash 
them upon the ground ; 

Nor hold my hand 

While on the land, 

A foreigner foe was found. 



Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, and a rifle that 

never failed, 
And a tribe of terrible prairie men, by desperate 
valor mailed, 

'Till "stripes and stars," 
And Bussian czars, 
Before the Red Indian quailed. 



Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, on the plains 

of Hindustan, 
And a hundred thousand cavaliers, to charge 
like a single man, 

Till our shirts were red, 
And the English fled, 
Like a cowardly caravan. 



486 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



Oh ! for a steed, a rushing steed, with the Greeks 

at Marathon, 
Or a place in the Switzer phalanx, when the 
Morat men swept on, 

Like a pine-clad hill 
By an earthquake's will 
Hurled the valleys upon. 



Oh 1 for a steed, a rushing steed, when Brian 

smote down the Dane, 
Or a place beside great Aodh O'Neill, when 
Bagenal the bold was slain, 
Or a waving crest 
And a lance in rest, 
With Bruce upon Bannoch plain. 

VII. 

Oh 1 for a steed, a rushing steed, on the Curragh 

of Kildare, 
And Irish squadrons ready to do, as they are 
ready to dare — 

A hundred yards, 
And Holland's guards 
Drawn up to engage me there. 

VIII. 

Oh 1 for a steed, a rushing steed, and any good 

cause at all, 
Or else, if you will, a field on foot, or guarding 
a leaguered wall 

For freedom's right ; 
In flushing fight 
To conquer if then to fall. 



CYMRIC RULE AND CYMRIC RULERS.' 

Aik— The March of the Men of Harlech. 1 



Once there was a Cymric nation: 
Few its men, but high its station — 
Freedom is the soul's creation, 

Not the work of hands. 
Coward hearts are. self-subduing; 
Fetters last by slaves' renewing — 
Edward's castles are in ruin, 

Still his empire stands. 
Still the Saxon's malice 
Blights our beauteous valleys ; 



Ours the t*>il, but his the spoil, and his the lawi 

we writhe in ; 
Worked like beasts, that Saxon priests may riot 
in our tithing; 

Saxon speech and Saxon teachers 

Crush our Cymric tongue ! 
Tolls our traffic binding, 
Rents our vitals grinding — 
Bleating sheep, we cower and weep, when, by 

one bold endeavor, 
We could drive from out our hive the Saxoa 
for ever. 
" Cymric Rule and Cymric Rulers" - 
Pass along the word ! 



We should blush at Arthur's glory- 
Never sing the deeds of Rory — 
Caratach's renowned story 
Deepens our disgrace. 
By the bloody day of Banchor! 
By a thousand years of rancor ! 
By the wrongs that iu us canker! 

Up ! ye Cymric race — 
Think of Old Llewellyn- 
Owen's trumpets swelling : 
Then send out a thunder shout, and every tra« 

man summon, 
Till the ground shall echo round from Severn to 
Plinlimmon, 

"Saxon foes, and Cym.'ic brothers, 

"Arthur's con.e again !" 
Not his bone and smew, 
But his soul wiVnin you, 
Prompt and true fc plan and do, and firm a.» 

Monmouth ion 
For our cause though crafty laws and charging 
troops environ — 

"Cymric Rule and Cymric Rulers""- 
Pass along the word ! 



1 Tide Appendix. 



A BALLAD OF FREEDOiM. 



The Frenchman sailed in Freedom's name ts 

smite the Algerinc, 
The strife was short, the crescent sunk, and then 

his guile was seen ; 
For, nestling iu the pirate's hold — a fiercer pirate 

far— 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



487 



He bade the tribes yield up their flocks, the 

towns their gates unbar. 
Right on he pressed with freemen's hands to 

subjugate the free, 
The Berber in old Atlas glens, the Moor in 

Titteri ; 
And wider have his razzias spread, his cruel con- 
quests broader, 
But God sent down, to face his frown, the gallant 

Abdel-Kader— 
The faithful Abdel-Kader! unconquered Abdel- 
Kader ! 

Like falling rock, 
Or fierce siroc — 
No savage or marauder — 
Son of a slave ! 
First of the brave ! 
Hurrah for Abdel-Kader! 1 



The Englishman, for long, long years, had 

ravaged Ganges' side — 
A dealer first, intriguer next, he conquered far 

and wide, 
Till, hurried on by avarice, and thirst of endless 

rule, 
His sepoys pierced to Candahar, his flag waved 

in Cabul ; 
But still within the conquered land was one 

unconquered man, 
The fierce Pushtani 2 lion, the fiery Akhbar 

Khan- 
He slew t'he sepoys on the snow, till Scindh's 3 

full flood they swam it 
Right rapidly, content to flee the son of Dost 

Mohammed, 
The sou of Dost Mohammed, and brave old Dost 
Mohammed — 

Oh ! long may they 
Their mountains sway, 
Akhbar and Dost Mohammed ! 
Long live the Dost ! 
"Who Britain crost, 
Hurrah for Dost Mohammed ! 



The Russian, lord of million serfs, and nobles 
serflier still, 



1 This name is pronounced Cawder. The French say that their 
great foe was a Blave's son. Be it so— he has a hero's and freeman's 
heart. " Hurrah for Abdel-Kader !"— Abthor's Note. 

2 This is the name by which the Affghans call themselves. 
A«gh«n is a Persian name.— Id. 

3The real name of the Indus, which is a Latinized word.— Id. 



Indignant saw Circassia's sons bear up against 

his will ; 
With fiery ships he lines their coast, his armies 

cross their streams — 
He builds a hundred fortresses — his conquests 

done, he deems. 
But steady rifles — rushing steeds — a crowd of 

nameless chiefs — 
The plough is o'er his arsenals! — his fleet is on 

the reefs! 
The maidens of Kabyntica are clad in Moscow 



His slavish herd, how dared they beard the 

msuntain-bred CherkeSses ! 
The lightening Cherkesses! — the thundering 
Cherkesses ! 

May Elburz top 
In Azov drop, 
Ere Cossacks beat Cherkesses ! 
The fountain head 
Whence Europe spread — 
Hurra! for the tali Cherkesses! 4 



But Russia preys on Poland's fields, where So- 

bieski reigned, 
And Austria on Italy — the Roman eagle ' 

chained — 
Bohemia, Servia, Hungary, within her clutches, 

gasp; 
And Ireland struggles gallantly in England's 

loosening grasp. 
O ! would all these their strength unite, or battle 

on alone, 
Like Moor, Pushtani, and Cherkess, they soor 

would have their own. 
Hurrah ! hurrah ! it can't be far, when from the 

Scindh to Shannon 
Shall gleam a line of freemen's flags begirt by 

freemen's cannon ! 
The coming day of Freedom — the flashing flags 
of Freedom ! 

The victor glaive — 
The mottoes brave, 
May we be there to read them ! 
T»hat glorious noon, 
God send it soon — 
Hurrah for human Freedom ! 



4 Cherkesses or Abdyes is the right name of the so-called Cir- 
cassians. Kabyntica is a town in the heart of the Caucasus, of 
which Mount Elburz is the summit Blumenbach, and other 
physiologists, assert that the finer European races descend from a 
Circassian stock — Id. 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS 



THE IRISH HURRAH. 

Am — Nach m-baineann tin do. 



Hate you hearkened the eagle scream over the 

sea? 
Have you hearkened the breaker beat under 

your lee ? 
A something between the wild waves, in their 

play, 
And the kingly bird's scream, is The Irish 

Hurrah ! 



How it rings on the rampart when Saxons assail, 
How it leaps on the level, and crosses the vale, 
Till the talk of the cataract faints on its way, 
And the echo's voice cracks with The Irish 
Hurrah ! 



How it sweeps o'er the mountain when hounds 

are on scent, 
How it presses the billows when rigging is rent, 
Till the enemy's broadside sinks low in dismay, 
As our boarders go in with The Irish Hurrah! 

IV. 

Oh ! there's hope in the trumpet and glee in the 

fife, 
But never such music broke into a strife, 
As when at its bursting the war-clouds give way, 
And there's cold steei along with The Irish i 

Hurrah ! 



What joy for a death-bed, your banner above, 
And round you the pressure of patriot love, 
As you're lifted to gaze on the breaking array 
Of the Saxon reserve at The Irish Hurrah 1 



A SONG FOR THE HUSH MILITIA. 

Am— The Peacock. 



The tribune's tongue and poet's pen 
May sow the seeds in prostrate men ; 
But 'tis the soldier's sword alone 
Can reap the crop so bravely sown! 



No more I'll sing nor idly pine, 
But train my soul to lead a line — 
A soldier's life's the life for me — 
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free ! 



No foe would fear your thunder words 
If 'twere not for our lightning swords — 
If tyrants yield when millions pray, 
'Tis lest they link in war array ; 
Nor peace itself is safe, but when 
The sword is sheathed by fighting 
A soldier's life's the life for me — 
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free ! 



The rifle brown and sabre bright 
Can freely speak and nobly write — 
What prophets preached the truth so well 
As Hofer, Brian, Bruce, and Tell! 
God guard the creed those heroes t-uight,- 
That blood-bought Freedom's cheaply bought 
A soldier's life's the life for me — 
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free ! 



Then, welcome be the bivouac, 
The hardy stand, and fierce attack, 
Where pikes will tame their carbineer* 
And rifles thin their bay'neteers, 
And every field the island through 
Will show " what Irishmen ce\a do !" 
A soldier's life's the life fo.T vw — 
A soldier's death, so Ireland free ! 



Yet, 'tis not strength, and 'tis rot steel 
Alone can make the English real ; 
But wisdom, working day by day, 
Till comes the time for passion's sway— 
The patient dint, and powder shock, 
Can blast an empire like a rock. 
A soldier's life's the life for me — 
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free ! 



The tribune's tongue and poet's pen 
May sow the seed in slavish men ; 
But 'tis the soldier's sword alone 
Can reap the harvest when 'tis grown. 
No more I'll sing, no more I'll pine, 
But train my soul to lead a line — 
A soldier's life's the life for me — 
A soldier's death, so Ireland's free! 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



OUR OWN AGAIN. 

Aik — Original. 2 

Let the coward shrink aside, 

We'll have our own again ; 
Let the brawling slave deride, 

Here's for our own again — 
Let the tyrant bribe and lie, 
March, threaten, fortify, 
Loose his lawyer and his spy, 

Yet we'll have our own again. 
Let him soothe in silken tone, 
Scold from a foreign thro-ne ; 
Let him come with bugles blown, 

We shall have our own again. 
Let us to our purpose bide, 

We'll have our own again — 
Let the game be fairly tried, 

We'll have our own again. 

ii. 
Send the cry throughout the land, 

" Who's for our own again ?" 
Summon all men to our band, — 

Why not our own again ? 
Rich, and poor, and old, and young, 
Sharp sword, and fiery tongue — 
Soul and sinew firmly strung, 

All to get our own again. 
Brothers thrive by brotherhood — 
Trees in a stormy wood — 
Riches come from Nationhood — 

Sha'n't we have our own again f 
Munster's woe is Ulster's bane ! 

Join for our own again — 
Tyrants rob as well as reign, — 

We'll have our own again. 

in. 

Oft our fathers' hearts it stirred, 

" Rise for our own again !" 
Often passed the signal word, 

" Strike for our own again !" 
Rudely, rashly, and untaught, 
Uprose they, ere they ought, 
Failing, though they nobly fought, 

Dying for their own again. 
Mind will rule and muscle yield, 
In senate, ship, and field- 
When we've skiM our strength to wield 

Let us take our own again. 



By the slave his chain is wrought, — 
Strive for our own again. 

Thunder is less strong than thought,- 
We'll have our own again. 



Calm as granite to our foes, 

Stand for our own again ; 
Till his wrath to madness grows 

Firm for our own again. 
Bravely hope, and wisely wait, 
Toil, join, and educate ; 
Man is master of his fate ; 

We'll enjoy our own again. 
With a keen constrained thirst — 
Powder's calm ere it burst- 
Making ready for the worst, 

So we'll get our own again. 
Let us to our purpose bide, 

We'll have our own again. 
God is on the righteous side, 

We'll have our own again. 



CELTS AND SAXONS. s 



We hate the Saxon and the Dane, 

We hate the Norman men — 
We cursed their greed for blood and gain, 

We curse them now again. 
Yet start not, Irish born man, 

If you're to Ireland true, 
We heed not blood, nor creed, nor clan— 

We have no curse for you. 



We have no curse for you or yours, 

But Friendship's ready grasp, 
And faith to stand by you and yours 

Unto our latest gasp — 
To stand by you against all foes, 

Howe'er or whence they come, 
With traitor arts, or bribes, or blows, 

From England, France, or Rome. 



What matter that at different shrines 
We pray unto one God— 



''Evening Mail," deprecating and defying the assumed blatUity of 
i printed la the the Irish Celts to the Irish Saxons.— Adtbob's Note. 



490 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



What matter that at different times 
Our fathers won this sod — 

In fortune and in name we're bound 
By stronger links than steel ; 

And neither can be safe nor sound 
But in the other's weal. 



As Nubian rocks, and Ethiop sand 

Long drifting down the Nile, 
Bnijt up old Egypt's fertile land 

For many a hundred mile; 
So Pagan clans to Ireland came, 

And clans of Christendom, 
Yet joined their wisdom and their f 

To build a nation from. 



Here came the brown Phoenician, 

The man of trade and toil — 
Here came the proud Milesian, 

Ahungering for spoil ; 
And the Firbolg and the Cymry, 

And the hard, enduring Dane, 
And the iron Lords of Normandy, 

With the Saxons in their train. 



And oh ! it were a gallant deed 

To show before mankind, 
How every race and every creed 

Might be by love combined — 
Might be combined, yet not forget 

The fountain whence they rose, 
As, filled by many a rivulet 

The statelv Shannon flows. 



Nor would we wreak our ancient feud 

On Belgian or on Dane, 
Nor visit in a hostile mood 

The hearths of Gaul or Spain ; 
But long as on our country lies 

The Anglo-Norman yoke, 
Their tyranny we'll signalize, 

And God's revenge invoke. 



We do not hate, we never cursed, 
Nor spoke a foeman's word 

Against a man in Ireland nursed, 
Howe'er we thought he erred ; 



So start not, Irish bc-rn man, 

If you're to Ireland true, 
We heed not race, nor creed, nor clan, 

We've hearts and hands for vou. 






ORANGE AND GREEN WILL CARRY 
THE DAY. 

Aih — The Protestant Boys. 



Ireland ! rejoice, and, England ! deplore— 

Faction and feud are passing away. 
'Twas a low voice, but 'tis a loud roar, 
" Orange and green will carry the day." 

Orange ! Orange ! 

Green and Orange ! 
Pitted together in many a fray — 

Lions in fight ! 

And linked in their might, 
Orange and Green will carry the day. 

Orange ! Orange ! 

Green and Orange ! 
Wave together o'e mountain and bay. 

Orange and Green ! 

Our King and our Queen! 
" Orange and Green will carrv the day !" 

ii. 

Rusty the swords our fathers unsheathed — 

William and James are turned to clay — 

Long did we till the wrath they bequeathed ; 

Red was the crop, and bitter the pay ! 

Freedom fled us 1 

Knaves misled us ! 
Under the feet of the foemen we lay — 

Riches and strength 

We'll win them at length, 
For Orange and Green will carry the day ! 

Landlords fooled us ; 

England ruled us, 
Hounding our passions to make us their prey 

But, in their spite, 

The Irish Unite, 
And Orange and Green will carry the day ! 



Fruitful our soil where honest men starve ; 
Empty the mart, and shipless tire bay; 
Out of our want the Oligarchs carve ; 
Foreigners fatten on our decay ! 
Disunited, 
Therefore blighted, 






THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



Ruined and.rent by the Englishman's sway, 


Deep was the oath the Orangeman swore, 


Party and creed 


"Orange and Green must carry the day !" 


For once have agreed — 


Orange ! Orange ! 


Orange and Green will carry the day ! 


Bless the Orange ! 


Bovne's old water, 


Tories and Whigs grew pale with dismay 


Red with slaughter! 


When, from the North, 


Now is as pure as an ; nfant at play ; 


Burst the cry forth, 


So, in our souls, 


" Orange and Green will carry the day ;" 


Its history rolls. 


No surrender ! 


And Orange and Green will carry the day. 


No Pretender 




Never to falter and never betray — 


IV. 


With an Amen, 


English deceit can rule us no more, 


We swear it again, 


Bigots and knaves are scattered like spray — 


Orange and Green shall carry the dat. 



FA.RT II. 

Jtdioiral Songs anb Jalkbs. 



"The greatest achievement of the Irish people is their music. 
It tells their history, climate, and character; but it too much 
loves to weep. Let us, when so many of our chains have been 
broken — while our strength is great, and our hopes high— culti- 
vate its bolder strains— its raging and rejoicing ; or if we weep, let 
It be like men wIk-jo eyes are lifted, though their tears fall. 

u Music is the first faculty of the Irish ; and scarcely any thing 
has snch power for good over them. The use of this faculty and 
this power, publicly and constantly, to keep up their spirits, re- 
fine their tastes, warm their courage, increase their union, and 
renew their zeal— is the duty of every patriot"— Davis's Essays, 



THE LOST PATH. 



Am—Gradk mo Chroide. 



Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort 1 

All comfort else has flown : 
For every hope was false to me, 

And here I am, alone. 
What thoughts were mine in early youth ! 

Like some old Irish song, 



Brimful of love, and life, and truth, 
My spirit gushed along. 



I hoped to right my native isle, 

I hoped a soldier's fame, 
I hoped to rest in woman's smile, 

And win a minstrel's name. 
Oh ! little have I served my land, 

No laurels press my brow, 
I have no woman's heart or hand, 

Nor minstrel honors now 



But fancy has a magic power, 

It brings me wreath and crown, 
And woman's love, the self-same hour 

It smites oppression down. 
Sweet thoughts, bright dreams, my comfort b«, 

I have no joy beside ; 
Oh ! throng around, and be to me 

Power, country, fame, and bride. 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



J 



LOVE'S LONGINGS. 



To the conqueror his crowning, 

First freedom to the slave, 
And air unto the drowning, 

Sunk in the ocean's wave — 
And succor to the faithful, 

Who fight tlieir flag above, 
Are sweet, but far less grateful 

Than were my lady's love. 



I know I am not worthy 

Of one so young and bright ; 
And yet I would do for thee 

Far more than others might; 
I cannot give you pomp or gold, 

If you should be my wife, 
But I can give you love untold, 

And true in death or life. 



Methinks that there are passions 

Within that heaving breast 
To scorn their heartless fashion, 

And wed whom you love best. 
Methinks you would be prouder 

As the struggling patriot's bride, 
Than if rank your home should crowd, or 

Cold riches round you glide. 



Oh ! the watcher longs for morning, 

And the infant cries for light, 
And the saint for heaven's warning, 

And the vanquished pray for might ; 
But their prayer, when lowest kneeling, 

And their suppliance most true, 
Are cold to the appealing 

Of this longing heart to you. 



HOPE DEFERRED. 
Aia—Oh/ art thou gone, my Mary dtart 



Tis long since we were forced to part, at least it 

seems so to my grief, 
For sorrow wearies us like time, but ah it 

brings not time's relief; 



As in our days of tenderness, before me still she 
seems to glide ; 

And, though my arms are wide as then, yet she 
will not abide. 

The daylight and the starlight shine, as if her 
eyes were in their light, 

And, whispering in the panting breeze, her love- 
songs come at lonely night; 

While, far away with those less dear, she tries to 
hide her grief in vain, 

For, kind to all while true to me, it pains her to 
give pain. 



I know she never spoke her love, she never 

breathed a single vow, 
And yet I'm sure she loved me then, and still 

doats on me now ; 
For when we met, her eyes grew glad, and heavy 

when I left her side, 
And oft she said she'd be most happy as a poor 

man's bride ; 
I toiled to win a pleasant home, and make it 

ready by the spring; 
The spring is past — what season now my girl 

unto our home will bring? 
I'm sick and weary, very weary — watching, 

morning, night, and noon ; 
How long you're coming — I am dying — will yon 

not come soon ? 



ED3HLIN A RtlN. 

Ara— Eibhlin a ruin. 



When I am far away, 
Eibhlin a ruin, 
Be gayest of the gay, 
Eibhlin a ruin, 
Too dear your happiness, 
For me to wish it less — 
Love has no selfishness, 
Eibhlin a ruin. 



And it must be our pride, 
Eibhlin a ruin, 

Our trusting hearts to hide, 
Eibhlin a ruin. 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



They wish, our love to blight, 

We'll wait for Fortune's light, 

The flowers close up at night, 

Eibhlin a ruin. 



And when we meet alone, 

Eibhlin a ruin, 
Upon my bosom thrown, 

Eibhlin a ruin ; 
That hour, with light bedecked, 
Shall cheer us and direct, 
A beacon to the wrecked, 
Eibhlin a ruin. 



Fortune, thus sought, will come, 

Eibhlin a ruin, 
We'll win a happy home, 

Eibhlin a ruin. 
And, as it slowly rose, 
Twill tranquilly repose, 
A rock 'mid melting snows, 

Eibhlin a ruin. 



THE BANKS OF THE LEE. 

Am— A THp to the Cottage. 



Oh! the banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee, 
And love in a cottage for, Marj and me ; 
There's not in the land a lovelier tide, 
And I'm sure that there's no one so fair as my 
bride. 

She's modest and meek, 

There's a down on her cheek, 

And her skin is as sleek 
As a butterfly's wing — 

Then her step would scarce show 

On the fresh-fallen snow, 

And her whisper is low, 
But as clear as the spring. 
Oh ! the banks of the Lee, the banks of the Lee, 
And love in a cottage for Mary and me, 
I know not how love is happy elsewhere, 
I know not how any but lovers are there ! 



Oh ! so green is the grass, so clear is the stream, 
So mild is the mist, and so rich is the beam, 



That beauty should ne'er to other lands roam, 

But make on the banks of the river its home. 

When dripping with dew, 

The roses peep through, 

'Tis to look in at you 

They are growing so fast ; 
While the scent of the flowers 
Must be hoarded for hours, 
'Tis poured in such showers 
When my Mary goes past. 
Oh ! the banks of the Lee, the banks of the 

Lee, 
And love in a cottage for Mary and me — 
Oh, Mary for me — oh, Mary for me ! 
And 'tis little I'd sigh for the banks of the 



THE GIRL OF DUNBWY 



'Tis pretty to see the girl of Dunbwy 
Stepping the mountain statelily — 
Though ragged her gown, and naked her feet, 
No lady in Ireland to match her is meet. 



Poor is her diet, and hardly she lies — 

Yet a monarch might kneel for a glance of ne» 

eyes; 
The child of a peasant — yet England's pioud 

Queen 
Has less rank in her heart, and less gra-.e in her 

mien. 



Her brow 'neath her raven haii gleams, just as if 
A breaker spread white 'neath a shadowy cliff — 
And love, and devotion, and energy speak 
From her beauty-proud eye, and her passion- 
pale cheek. 



But, pale as her cheek is, there's fruit on her 

"P, 
And her teeth flash as white as the crescent 

moon's tip, 
And her form and her step, like the red-deer'e 

go past — 
As lightsome, as lovely, as haughty, as fast 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



I saw her but once, and I looked in her eye, 
And she knew that I worshipped in passing her by, 
The saint of the wayside — she granted my 

prayer, 
Though we spoke not a word, for her mother 

was there. 



I never can think upon Bantry's bright hills, 
But her image starts up, and my longing eye fills ; 
And I whisper her softly, " Again, love, we'll 

meet, 
And Til lie in your bosom, and live at your feet." 



DUTY AND LOVE. 

An — My lodging is on the cold ground. 



Oh ! lady, think not that my heart has grown cold, 

If I woo not as once I could woo ; 
Though sorrow has bruised it, and long years 
have rolled, 

It still doats on beauty and you , 
And were I to yield to its inmost desire, 

I would iabor by night and by day, 
Till I won you to flee from the home of your sire, 

To live with your love far away. 



But it is that my country's in bondage, and I 

Have sworn to shatter her chains ! 
By my duty and oath I must do it, or lie 

A corse on her desolate plains : 
Then, sure, dearest maiden, 'twere sinful to sue, 

And crueller far to win, 
But, should victory smile on my banner, to you 

I shall fly without sorrow or sin. 



ANNIE, DEAR. 

Am— Maidt in May. 



Oub mountain brooks were rushing, 
Annie, dear, 

The Autumn eve was flushing, 

Annie, dear ; 



But brighter was your blushing, 
When first, your murmurs hushing, 
I told my love outgushing, 

Annie, dear. 



Ah 1 but our hopes were splendid. 

Annie, dear; 
How sadly they have ended, 

Annie, dear ! 
The ring betwixt us broken, 
When our vows of love were spoken, 
Of your poor heart was a token, 

Annie dear. 



The primrose flowers were shining 
Annie, dear, 

When, on my breast reclining, 

Annie, dear, 

Began our Mi-na-meala ; 

And many a month did follow 

Of joy — but life is hollow, 

Annie, dear. 



For once, when home returning, 

Annie, dear, 

I found our cottage burning, 

Annie, dear; 

Around it were the yeomen, 

Of every ill an omen, 

The country's bitter foemen, 

Annie, dear. 



But why arose a morrow, 

Annie, dear, 
Upon that night of sorrow, 

Annie, dear! 
Far better, by thee lying, 
Their bayonets defying, 
Than live an exile sighing, 

Annie, dear. 



BLIND MART. 

Am— Blind Mary. 



There flows from her spirit such lore and delight, 
That the face of Blind Mary is radiant with light — 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



As the gleam from a homestead through dark- 


m. 


ness will show, 


Oh ! the banks of the stream are 


Cr the moon glimmer soft through the fast fall- 


Than emeralds greener : 


ing snow. 


And how should they wean her 




From loving the earth ? 


ii. 


While the' song-birds so sweet, 


Yet there's a keen sorrow comes o'er her at 


And the waves at their feet, 


times, 


And each young pair they meet, 


As an Indian might feel in our northerly climes ; 


Are all flushing with mirth. 


And she talks of the sunset, like parting of 




friends, 


IV. 


And the starlight, as love, that nor changes nor 


And she listed his talk, 


ends. 


And he shared in her walk — 




And how could she baulk 


in. 


One so gallant and true ? 


Ah ! grieve not, sweet maiden, for star or for sun, 


But why tell the rest ? 


For the mountains that tower, or the rivers that 


Her love she confest, 


run— 


And sunk on his breast, 


For beauty and grandeur, and glory, and light, 


Like the eventide dew. 


Are seen by the spirit, and not by the sight. 




IV. 


Ah ! now her cheek glows 


In vain for the thoughtless are sunburst and 


With the tint of the rose, 


shade, 


And her healthful blood flows, 


In vain for the heartless flowers blossom and fade ; 


Just as fresh as the stream ; 


While the darkness that seems your sweet being 


And her eye flashes bright, 


to bound 


And her footstep is light, 


Is one of the guardians, an Eden around ! 


And sickness and blight 




Fled away like a dream. 




VI. 

And soon by his side 


THE BRIDE OF MALLOW. 


She kneels a sweet bride, 




In maidenly pride 


'■ 


And maidenly fears; 


Twas dying they thought her, 


And their children were fair, 


And kindly they brought her 


And their home knew no care, 


To the banks of Blackwater, 


Save that all homesteads were 


Where her forefathers lie ; 


Not as happy as theirs. 


'Twas the place of her childhood, 




And they hoped that its wild wood, 




And air soft and mild would 




Soothe her spirit to die. 


THE WELCOME. 


ii. 


Am — An buuchailin buidh*. 


But she met on its border 




A lad who adored her — 


I. 


No rich man, nor lord, or 


Comb in the evening, or come in the morning, 


A coward, or slave ; 


Come when your looked for, or come without 


But one who had worn 


warning, 


A green coat, and borne 


Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, 


A pike from Slieve Mourne, 


And the oftener you come here the more I'll 


With the patriots brave. 


adore you. 



THE POEMS OF TFIOMAS DAVIS. 



Light is my heart since tiie day we were 

plighted, 
Red is my cheek that they told me was 

blighted ; 
The green of the trees looks far greener than 

ever, 
And the .innets are singing, "True lovers I 

don't sever." 



I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose 

them ; 
Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my 

bosom. 
I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire 

you; 
I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire 
you. 
Oh ! your step's like the rain to the summer- 
vexed farmer, 
Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor; 
I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise 

above me, 
Then, wandering, I'll wish you, in silence, to 
love me 



We'll look through the trees at the cliff, and the 

eyrie, 
We'll tread round the rath on the track of the 

fairy, 
We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the 

river, 
Till you ask of your darling what gift you can 
give her. 
Oh ! she'll whisper you : "Love as unchange- 
ably beaming, 
And trust, when in secret, most tunefully 

streaming, 
Till the starlight of heaven above us shall 

quiver, 
As our souls flow in one down eternity's 
river." 



So come in the evening, or come in the morn- 
ing, 
Come when you're looked for, or come without 

warning, 
Kisses and welcome you'll find here before 

you, 
And the oftener you come here the more Til 
adore youl 



Light is my heart since the day we were 

plighted, 
Red is my cheek that they told me was 

blighted ; 
The green of the trees looks far greener 

ever, 
And the linnets are singing, "True lover* I 

don't sever !" 



THE Mt-NA-MEALA. 



Like the rising of the sun, 

Herald of bright hours to follow, 
Lo ! the marriage rites are done, 

And begun the Mi-na-meala. 



Heart to heart, and hand to hand, 
Vowed 'fore God to love and cherish, 

Each by each in grief to stand, 
Never more apart to flourish. 

m. 
Now their lips, low whisp'ring, speak 

Thoughts their eyes have long been saying, 
Softly bright, and richly meek, 

As seraphs first their wings essaying. 



Deeply, wildly, warmly love — 
'Tis a heaven-sent enjoyment, 

Lifting up our thoughts above 
Selfish aims and cold employment. 



Yet, remember, passion wanes, 
Romance is parent to dejection ; 

Naught our happiness sustains 

But thoughtful care and firm affection. 

VI. 

When the Mi-na-meala 's flown, 
Sterner duties surely need you ; 

Do their bidding, — 'tis love's own,— 
Faithful love will say God speed yon. 



Guard her comfort as 'tis worth, 
Pray to God to look down on her; 

And swift as cannon-shot go forth 
To strive for freedom, truth, and honor. 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



VIII. 


Mild is M&ire bh&n a stdir, 


Oft recall — and never swerve — 


Mine is M&ire bhan a stdir. 


Your children's love and hers will follow; 


Saints will watch about the door 


Guard your home, and there preserve 


Of my M&ire bh&n a stdir. 


For you an endless Mi-na-meala. 1 








OH ! THE MARRIAGE. 


MAIRE BHAN A STOIR. 






Air — The Swaggering Jig. 


Am — Original. 


j 


I. 


Oh ! the marriage, the marriage, 


In a valley, far away, 


With love and mo bhuackaill for me, 


With my M&ire "bh&n a stdir* 


The ladies that ride in a carriage 


Short would be the summer-day, 


Might envy my marriage to me ; 


Ever loving more and more ; 


For Eoghan 4 is straight as a tower, 


Winter-days would all grow long, 


And tender and loving and true, 


With the light her heart would pour, 


He told me more love in an hour 


With her kisses and her song, 


Than the 'Squires of the county could do. 


And her loving maith go ledr. 3 


Then, Oh ! the marriage, &c. 


Fond is M&ire bh&n a stdir, 




Fair is M&ire bh&n a stdir. 


ii. 


Sweet as ripple on the shore, 


His hair is a shower of soft gold, 


Sings my M&ire bh&n a stdir. 


His eye is as clear as the day, 




His conscience and vote were unsold 


ii. 


When others were carried away ; 


Oh ! her sire is very proud, 


His word is as good as an oath, 


And her mother cold as stone ; 


And freely 'twas given to me : 


But her brother bravely vowed 


Oh ! sure 'twill be happy for both 


She should be ray bride alone ; 


The day of our marriage to see. 


For he knew I loved her well, 


Then, Oh ! the marriage, &c. 


And he knew she loved me too, 




So he sought their pride to quell, 


in. 


But 'twas all in vain to sue. 


His kinsmen are honest and kind, 


True is M&ire bh&n a stdir, 


The neighbors think much of his skill, 


Tried is M&ire bh&n a stdir, 


And Eoghan's the iad to my mind, 


Had I wings I'd never soar 


Though he owns neither castle nor mill. 


From my M&ire bh&n a stdir. 


But he has a tilloch of land, 




A horse and a stocking of coin, 


in. 


A foot for the dance, and a hand 


There are lands where manly toil 


In the cause of his country to join. 


Surely reaps the crop it sows, 


Then, Oh ! the marriage, «fce 


Glorious woods and teeming soil, 




Where the broad Missouri flows; 


IV. 


Through the trees the smoke shall rise, 


We meet in the market and fair — 


From our hearth with maith go ledr, 


We meet in the morning and night — 


There shall shine the happy eyes 


He sits on the half of my chair, 


Of my M&ire bh&n a stdir. 


And my people are wild with delight. 


1 Honeymoon. 


it is. Really it Is time for tbe inhabitants of Ireland to lean Irlak 


2 Which means " fair Mary my treasure. 1 * If we are to write 


S Much plenty, or In abundance.— Adtbob's Note. 


gibberish to enable Borne of our readers to |>rommnce this, we 


4 Vulao Owen ; but tbat is, properly, a name among the Cymry 


tout do so thus, Maur^/a vaun aetlvai-e, and pretty looking staff 


(WeUh).-7<t 



498 THE POEMS OF 


THOMAS DAVIS 


Yet I long through the winter to skim, 


IK. 


Though Eoghan longs more I can see, 


Your fathers halls are nch and fair, 


When I will be married to him, 


And plain the home you've come to share ' 


And he will be married to me. 


But happy love's a fairy king, 


Then, Oh ! the marriage, the marriage, 


And sheds a grace on every thing. 


With love and mo bkuachaill for me, 


The ladies that ride in a carriage, 




Might envy my marriage to me. 








THE BOATMAN OF KINSALE. 

Am— An Cota Gaol. 




A PLEA FOR LOVE 


t 


i. 


His kiss is sweet, his word is kind, 


Ths summer brook flows in the bed 


His love is rich to me ; 


The winter torrent tore asunder ; 


I could not in a palace find 


The skylark's gentle wings are spread, 


A truer heart than he. 


Where walk the lightning and the thunder: 


The eagle shelters not his nest 


And thus you'll find the sternest soul 


From hurricane and hail, 


The greatest tenderness concealing, 


More bravely than he guards my breast— 


And minds, that seem to mock control, 


The Boatman of Kinsale. 


Are ordered by some fairy feeling. 


II. 


ii. 


The wind that round the Fastnet sweeps 


Then, maiden ! start not from the hand 


Is not a whit more pure — 


That's hardened by the swaying sabre — 


The goat that down Cnoc Sheehy leaps 


The pulse beneath may be as bland 


Has not a foot more sure. 


As evening after day of labor: 


No firmer hand nor freer eye 


And, maiden ! start not from the brow 


E'er faced an Autumn gale — 


That thought has knit, and passion darkened ; 


De Courcy's heart is not so high — 


In twilight hours, 'neath forest bough, 


The Boatman of Kinsale. 


The tenderest tales are often hearkened. 


ni. 




The brawling squires may heed him not, 




The dainty stranger sneer — 




But who will dare to hurt our cot, 


THE BISHOP'S DAUGHTER. 


When Myles O'llea is here ! 




The scarlet soldiers pass along — 


Am— The Maid of Killala. 


They'd like, but fear to rail — 




His blood is hot, his blow is strong— 


I. 


The Boatman of Kinsale. 


Killala's halls are proud and fair; 




Tyrawley's hills are cold and bare; 


IV. 


Yet, in the palace, you were saj, 


His hooker's in the Scilly van, 


While, here, your heart is safe and glad. 


When seines are in the foam : 




But money never made the man, 


ii. 


Nor wealth a happy home. 


No satin couch, no maiden train, 


So, blest with love and liberty, 


Are here to soothe each passing pain ; 


While he can trim a sail. 


Yet lay your head my breast upon, — 


He'll trust in God, and cling to me— 


Twill turn to down for you, sweet one ! 


The Boatman of Kinsale. 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



499 



DARLING NELL. 



Whit should not I take her unto my heart? 
She has not a morsel of guile or art ; 
Why should not I make her my happy wife, 
And love her and cherish her all my life? 
I've met with a few of as shining eyes, 
I've met with a hundred of wilder sighs, 
I think I met some whom I loved as well — 
But none who loved me like my Darling Nell. 



She's ready to cry when I seem unkind, 
But she smothers her grief within her mind ; 
And when my spirit is soft and fond, 
She sparkles the brightest of stars beyond. 
Oh ! 'twould teach the thrushes to hear her sing, 
And her sorrow the heart of a rock would 

wring ; 
There never was saint but would leave his cell, 
If he thought he could marry my Darling Nell 1 



LOVE CHANT. 



[ think I've looked on eyes that shone 

With equal splendor, 
And some, but they are dimmed and gone, 

As wildly tender. 
I never looked on eyes that shed 

Such home-light mingled with such beauty- 
That 'mid all lights and shadows said, 
" I love and trust and will be true to ye." 



I've seen some lips almost as red, 

A form as stately ; 
And some such beauty turned my head 

Not very lately. 
But not till now I've seen a girl 

Wiih form so proud, lips so delicious, 

With hair like night, and teeth of pearl — 

Who was not haughty and capricious. 



Oh, fairer than the dawn of day 
On Erne's islands ! 
6 



Oh, purer than the thorn sp- *y 

In Batitry's highlands ! 
In sleep such visions crossed my view, 

And when I woke the phantom faded ; 
But now I find the fancy true, 

And fairer than the vision made it. 



a CHRISTMAS SCENE; 

OR. LOVK IN THE COUNTRY. 

Thf mil blast comes howling through leaf 

rifted trees 
That late were as harp-strings to each gentle 

breeze ; 
The strangers and cousins'and every one flown, 
While we sit happy-hearted — together — alone. 



Some are off to the mountain, and some to the fair, 
The snow is on their cheek, on mine your black 

hair; 
Papa with his farming is busy to-day, 
And mamma's too good-natured to ramble thia 

way. 



The girls are gone — are they not ? — into town, 
To fetch bows and bonnets, perchance a beau, 

down ; 
Ah! tell them, dear Kate, 'tis not fair to 

coquette — 
Though you, you bold lassie, are fond of it yet ! 



You're not — do you say ? — just remember last 

night, 
You gave Harry a rose, and you dubbed him 

your knight ; 
Poor lad ! if he loved you — but no, darling! no, 
You're too thoughtful and good to fret any one so. 



The painters are raving of light and of shade, 
And Harry, the pout, of' lake, hill, and glade; 
While the light of your eye and your soft 

wavy form 
Suit a proser like me, by the hearth bright 

and warm. 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



The (now on those hills is uncommonly grand, 
But you know. Kate, it's not half so white as 

your hand, 
And say what you will of the gray Christmas sky, 
Still I slightly prefer my dark girl's gray eye. 



Be quiet, and sing me " The Bonny Cuckoo," 
For it bids us the summer and winter love 

through ; 
And then I'll read out an old ballad that shows 
How Tyranny perished, and Liberty rose. 



My Kate ! I'm so happy, your voice whispers soft, 
And your cheek flushes wilder from kissing so 

oft, 
For town or for country, for mountains or farms, 
What care I? — My darling's entwined in my 



THE INVOCATION. 

Am— Fanny Powtr. 



Bmqht fairies by GlengarifFs bay, 
Soft woods that o'er Killarney sway, 
Bold echoes born in Ceim-an-eich, 

Your kinsman's greeting hear 1 
He asks yon, by old friendship's name, 
By all the rights that minstrels claim, 
For Erin's joy and Desmond's fame, 

Be kind to Fanny dear ! 



Her eyes are darker than Dunloe, 
Her soul is whiter than the snow, 
Her tresses like arbutus flow, 

Her step like frighted deer : 
Then, still thy waves, capricious lake ! 
And ceaseless, soft winds, rennd her wake, 
Yet never bring a cloud to break 

The smile of Fanny dear ! 



Oh ! let her see the trance-bound men, 
And kiss the red deer in his den, 
And spy from out a hazel glen 

O'Donoghue appear ; — 



Or, should she roam by wild Dunbwy, 
Oh ! send the maiden to her knee, 
I sung wliilome, 1 — but then, ah! me, 
I knew not Fanny dear! 



Old Mangerton ! thine eagles plume — 

Dear Innisfallen! brighter bloom — 

And Mucruss ! whisper through the gloom 

Quaint legends to her ear; 
Till strong as ash-tree in its pride, 
And gay as sunbeam on the tide, 
We welcome back to Liffey's side 

Our brightest, Fanny dear. 



LOVE AND WAR. 



How soft is the moon on Glengariff! 

The rocks seem to melt with the light * 
Oh ! would I were there with dear Fanny, 

To tell her that love is as bright; 
And nobly the sun of July 

O'er the waters of Adragoole shines — 
Oh ! would that I saw the green banner 

Blaze there over conquering lines. 



Oh ! love is more fair than the moonlight, 

And glory more grand than the sun ; 
And there is no rest for a brave heart, 

Till its bride and its laurels are won ; 
But next to the burst of our banner, 

And the smile of dear Fanny, I crar» 
The moon on the rocks of Glengariff — 

The sun upon Adragoole's wave. 



She is a rich and rare land ; 
Oh ! she's a fresh and fair land- 
She is a dear and rare land— 
This native land of mine. 



No men than hers are braver — 
Her women's hearts ne'er waver: 
I'd freely die to save her, 

And think my lot divine. 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



III. 


God smiles upon the bold — 


She's not a dull or cold land ; 


So, when your flag's unrolled, 


No ! she's a warm and bold land; 


Bear it bravely till you're cold 


Oh ! she's a true and old land — 


In the strife. 


This native land of mine. 


ii. 


IV. 

Could beauty ever guard her, 

And virtue still reward her, 

No foe would cross her border — 


If to rank or fame you soar, 
Out your spirit frankly pour — 
Men will serve you and adore, 

Like a king. 
Woo your girl with honest pride, 


No friend within it pine ! 


v. 


Till you've won her for your bride- 


Oh, she's a fresh and fair land; 


Then to her, through time and tide, 


Oh, she's a true and rare land; 


Ever cling 


Yes, she's a rare and fair land — 




This native land of mine. 


in. 




Never under wrongs despair ; 
Labor long, and everywhere, 
Link your countrymen, prepare, 




THE RIGHT ROAD. 


i. 


And strike home. 


Let the feeble-hearted pine 


Thus have great men ever wrought, 


Let the sickly spirit whine, 


Thus must greatness still be sought, 


But work and win be thine, 


Thus labored, loved and fought 


While you've life. 


Greece and Rome. 



PAET III. 

§nlkfcrs atttr Snttrjs HIttsiratifc ai !tis|r Hislcrrjr. 



This country of ours Is no sand-bank, thrown up by some 
recent caprice of earth. It Is an ancient land, honored in the 
archives of civilization, traceable into antiquity by its piety, 
its valor, and Its sufferings. Every great European race has 
Bent its stream to the river of Irish mind. Long wars, vast 
organizations, subtle codes, beacon crimes, leading virtues, 
and self mighty men were here. If we lived influenced by 
wind, and sun, and tree, and not by the passions and deeds of 
the Past, we are a thriftless and hopeless people. "—Davis's 



A NATION ONCE AGAIN. 1 ' 

When boyhood's fire was in my blood, 

I read of ancient freemei., 
For Greece and Rome who bravely stood, 

Three Hundred men and Three men.' 



IThis little poem, though not strictly belonging to the his- 
torical class, is placed first : as striking more distinctly than 
any other in the collection, the key-note of the author's 
theme.— Ed. 



And then I prayed I yet might see 

Our fetters rent in twain, 
And Ireland, long a province, be 

A Nation once again, 
ii. 
And, from that time, through wildest woe, 

That hope has shown, a far light ; 
Nor could love's brightest summer glow 

Outshine that solemn starlight ; 
It seemed to watch above my head 

In forum, field, and fane ; 
Its angel voice sang round my bed, 

"A Nation once again." 

2Set to original music in the "Spirit of the Nation," 4to, 1 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



It whispered, too, that " freedom's ark 

And service high and holy, 
Would be profaned by feelings dark 

And passions vain or lowly ; 
For freedom comes from God's right hand, 

And needs a godly train ; 
And righteous men must make our land 

A Nation once again." 



So, as I grew from boy to man, 

I bent me to that bidding — 
My spirit of each selfish plan 

And cruel passion ridding ; 
For, thus I hoped same day to aid — 

Oh ! can such hope be vain ? — 
When my dear country shall be made 

A Nation once again. 



LAMENT FOR THE MILESIANS. 

im-iit bruach na carraige bdine. 1 
I. 

Oh ! proud were the chieftains of green Inis-Fail! 

As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh ! ' 
The stars of our sky, and the salt of our soil ; 

As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh ! 
Their hearts were as soft as a child in the lap, 
Yet they were "the men in the gap" — 
And now that the cold clay their limbs doth 
enwrap ; — 

As truagh gan oidhir ''n-a bh-farradh ! 



'Gainst England long battling, at length they 
went down ; 

As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh ! 
But they left their deep tracks on the road of 
renown ; 

As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh ! 
We are heirs of their fame, if we're not of their 

race, — 
And deadly and deep our disgrace, 
If we live o'er their sepulchres, abject and base ; 
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh ! 



1 Set to this beautiful Tlpperary air in the " Spirit of the Na- 
tion." 4to. p. 236. 

2 " That is pity, without iieir in their company"— i. e.. What 
*plty that there is no heir of their company. See the t>oem 
Of Giolla Iosa ilor Mac Flrbislgh in Tlie Genealogies, Tribes. 



Oh I sweet were the minstrels of kind Inis- 
Fail! 

As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh ! 
Whose music, nor ages nor sorrow can spoil ; 
As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh ! 
But their sad stifled tones are like streams 

flowing hid, 
Their caoine 3 and their piopracht* were chid, 
And their language, " that melts in music," 
forbid ; 

As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh ! 



How fair were the maidens of fair Inis-Fail ! 

As truagh gan oidhir 'na bh-farradh ! 
As fresh and as free as the sea-breeze from soil, 

As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh ! 
Oh ! are not our maidens as fair and as pure ? 
Can our music no longer allure ? 
And can we but sob, as such wrongs we en- 
dure ? 

As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh f 



Their famous, their holy, their dear Inis-Fail ! 

As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh ! 
Shall it still be a prey for the stranger to spoil ? 

As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh I 
Sure, brave men would labor by night and by 

day 
To banish that stranger away ; 
Or, dying for Ireland, the future would say 

As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh ! 



Oh ! shame — for unchanged is the face of our 
isle; 

As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh ! 
That taught them to battle, to sing, and to 
smile ; 

As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bh-farradh ! 
We are heirs of their rivers, their sea, and their 

land, — 
Our sky and our mountains as grand — 
We are heirs — oh ! we're not — of their heart 
and tlieir hand ; 

As truagh gan oidhir 'n-a bhfarradh! 



and Customso/the Vi Fiachrack or O'Dvbhda's Country, print' 
ert for the Irish Arch. Soc. p. 230 line 2. and note d. Also, 
O'Reillus Diet voce—farradh.- 

3 AngHce keen. 

4 Anglice. pibroch. 






THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



THE FATE OF KING DATHI. 1 
(a. d. 428.)' 



Darkly their glibs o'erhang, 
Sharp is their wolf-dog's fang, 
Bronze spear and falchion clang — 

Brave men might shun them 
Heavy the spoil they bear — 
Jewels and gold are there — 
Hostage and maiden fair — 

How have they won them! 



From the soft sons of Gaul, 
Roman, and Frank, and thrall, 
Borough, and hut, and hall, — 

These have been torn. 
Over Britannia wide, 
Over fair Gaul they hied, 
Often in battle tried, — 

Enemies mourn ! 



Fiercely their harpers sing, — 
Led by their gallant king, 
They will to Em£ bring 

Beauty and treasure. 
Britain shall bend the knee — 
Rich shall their households be- 
When their long ships the sea 

Homeward shall measure. 



Barrow and Rath shall rise, 
Towers, too, of wondrous size, 
Tailtin they'll solemnize, 

Feis-Teamhrach assemble. 
Samhain and Beal shall smile 
On the rich holy isle — 
Nay ! in a little while 

QStius shall tremble !* 



Up on the glacier's snow, 
Down on the vales below, 
Monarch and clansmen go- 
Bright is the morning. 



lTtais and the remaining poems in Part I. have been arranged 
IS nearly as possible in chronological sequence, — Ed. 
S Vide Appendix. 
I The consul (Etius, the shield of Italy, and terror of " the bar- 



Never their march they slack, 
Jura is at their back, 
When falls the evening black, 
Hideous, and warning. 



Eagles scream loud on high ; 
Far off the chamois fly ; 
Hoarse comes the torrent's cry, 

On the rocks whitening. 
Strong are the storm's wings ; 
Down the tall pine it flings; 
Hailstone and sleet it brings — 

Thunder and lightning. 



Little these veterans mind 
Thundering, hail, or wind ; 
Closer their ranks they bind — 

Matching the storm. 
While, a spear-cast or more, 
On, the front ranks before, 
Dathi the sunburst bore — 

Hauglity his form. 



Forth from the thunder-cloud 
Leaps out a foe as proud — 
Sudden the monarch bowed — 

On rnsh the vanguard ; 
Wildly the king they raise — 
Struck by the lightning's blaze- 
Ghastly his dying gaze, 

Clutching his standard ! 



Mild is the morning beam, 
Gently the rivers stream, 
Happy the valleys seem ; 

But the lone Islanders — 
Mark how they guard their kingl 
Hark to the wail they sing 1 
Dark is their counselling — 

Helvetia's higlilanders. 



Gather, like ravens, near — 
Shall Dathi's soldiers fear ! 
Soon their home-path they clear- 
Rapid and daring; 



barian," was a contemporary of King Dathi. Feis-Teamnraa* 
the Parliament of Tara. Tailtin, games held at Tailite, county 
Meath. Samhain and Beal, the moon and sun, which Ireland 
worshipped.— Authob'8 Note. 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



On through the pass and plain, 
Until the shore they gain, 
And, with their spoil, again, 
Landed in Eirinn. 



Little does Eire 1 care 
For gold or maiden fair — 
"Where is King Dathi ? — where, 

Where is my bravest ?" 
On the rich deck he lies, 
O'er him his sunburst flies — 
Solemn the obsequies, 

Eire ! thou gavest. 



See ye that countless train 
Crossing Ros-ComainV plain, 
Crying, like hurricane, 
Uile liu ai ?— 
Broad is his carris base — 
Nigh the " King's burial-place," 
Last of the Pagan race, 
Lieth King Dathi ! 



ARGAN MOP,.' 
Air— Argan Mor. 



The Danes rush around, around ; 
To the edge of the fosse they bound ; 
Hark ! hark, to their trumpets' sound, 

Bidding them to the war ! 
Hark ! hark, to their cruel cry, 
As they swear our hearts' cores to dry, 
And their Raven red to dye ; 

Glutting their demon, Thor. 



Leaping the Rath upon, 
Here's the fiery Ceallachan — 
He makes the Lochlonnach 6 wan, 

Lifting his brazen spear ! 
Ivor, the Dane, is struck down, 
For the spear broke right through his crown. 
Yet worse did the battle frown — 

Anlaf is on our rere ! 



1 The true ancient and mod-em name of this island. — Ed. 

2 Angl. Roscuuuuon. 

3 HU>erniee y Roilig na Riogh ; vulgo, Relignaree— " A. famous 
burial-place near Oruachan, in Connacht, where the kings were 



See ! see ! the Rath's gates are broke, 
And in — in, like a cloud of smoke, 
Burst on the dark Danish folk, 

Charging us everywhere — 
Oh ! never was closer fight 
Than in Argan Mor that night — 
How little do men want light, 

Fighting within their lair 1 



Then girding about our king, 

On the thick of the foes we spring — 

Down — down we trample and fling, 

Gallantly though they strive J 
And never our falchions stood, 
Till we were all wet with their blood, 
And none of the pirate brood 

Went from the Rath alive 1 



THE VICTOR'S BURIAL. 



Wrap him in his banner, the best shroud of the 

brave — 
Wrap him in his onchu, 1 and take him to his 

grave — 
Lay him not down lowly, like bulwark over- 
thrown, 
But, gallantly upstanding, as if risen from his 

throne, 
With his craiseacK 1 in his hand, and his sword 

on his thigh, 
With his war-belt on his waist, and his cath- 

bharr* on high- 
Put his fleasg* upon his neck — his green flag 

round him fold, 
Lite ivy round a castle wall — not conquered, 
but grown old — 
'Mhuire as truagh! A mhuire as truagh! 

A mhuire as truagh! ochon /" 
Weep for him ! Oh ! weep for him ; but re- 
member, in your moan, 
That he died, in his pride, — with his foes 
about hira strown. 



usually interred, hefore the establishment of the Christian relhrios 

in Ireland."— OSriens h: Hid. 
4 Vide Appendix. 5 Northmen. 6 Flag. 1 Spear 

8 Helmet. 9 Collar. 10 Anglict, Wirrasthrue, ochon* 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



Oh ! shrine him in Beinn-Edair, 1 with his face 

towards the foe, 
As an emblem that not death our defiance can 

lay low — 
Let him look across the waves from the prom- 
ontory's breast, 
To menace back The East, and to sentinel The 

West; 
Sooner shall these channel waves the iron coast 

cut through, 
Than the spirit he has left, yield, Easterlings ! to 

you — 
Let his coffin be the hill, let the eagles of the 

sea 
Chorus with the surges round, the tuireamh* of 
the free ! 
'Mhuire as truagh ! A mhuire as truagh ! 

A mhuire as truagh !' ochon ! 
Weep for him ! Oh ! weep for him, but re- 
member, in your moan, 
That he died, in his pride — with his foes 
about him strown ! 



THE TRUE IRISH KING.' 



The Caesar of Rome has a wider demesne, 
And the Ard Righ of France has more clans in 

his train ; 
The sceptre of Spain is more heavy with gems, 
And our crowns cannot vie with the Greek 

diadems ; 
But kinglier far before heaven and man 
Are the Emerald fields, and the fiery-eyed clan, 
The sceptre, and state, and the poets who sing, 
And the swords that encircle A True Irish 

King ! 



For he must have come from a conquering race — 
The heir of their valor, their glory, their grace ; 
His frame must be stately, his step must be fleet, 
His hand must be trained to each warrior feat, 



1 Howth. a 

8 Vide Appendix. 
tAnglVKagm, O'Shiel. 
8 Angl. O'Cahan, or Kane, O'Hanlon. 
( Aral. The Ards. 



7 Angl. Donegal 



His face, as the harvest-moon, steadfast and clear, 
A head to enlighten, a spirit to cheer ; 
While the foremost to rush where the battle- 
brands ring, 
And the last to retreat is A True Irish Kino ! 



Yet, not for his courage, his strength, or his 

name, 
Can he from the clansmen their fealty claim. 
The poorest, and highest, choose freely to-day 
The chief, that to-night they'll as truly obey ; 
For loyalty springs from a people's consent, 
And the knee that is forced had been better un- 
bent — 
The Sacsauach serfs no such homage can bring 
As the Irishmen's choice of A True Irish 
King ! 



Come, look on the pomp when they " make an 
O'Neill ;" 

The muster of dynasts — O'h- Again, 4 O'Shiad- 
hail, 

O'Cathain, 0'h-Anluain, s O'Bhreislein, and all, 

From gentle Aird Uladh 6 to rude Dun na 
n-gall; 1 

" St. Patrick's comharba"* with bishops thir- 
teen, 

And ollamhs' and breitheamhs, 10 and minstrels, 
are seen, 

Round Tulach-Og" Rath, like the bees in the 
spring, 

All swarming to honor A True Irish Kino ! 



TJnsandalled he stands on the foot-dinted rock; 
Like a pillar-stone fixed against every shock, 
Round, round is the Rath on a far-seeing hill; 
Like his blemishless honor, and vigilant will. 
The graybeards are telling how chiefs by the 

score 
Have been crowned on " The Rath of the 

Kings" heretofore, 
While, crowded, yet ordered, within its green 

ring, 
Are the dynasts and priests round The True 

Irish Kino! 



8 Successor — comharba Phadruig — the Archbishop of (Ard* 
macha) Armagh. 

9 Doctors or learned men. 10 Judges. Angl. Brehonk 
11 In the county (Tir-Eoghain) Tyrone, between CookstowlK 

and Stewartstowa. 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



The chronicler read him the laws of the clan, 
And pledged him to bide by their blessing and 

ban; 
His skian and his sword arc unbuckled, to show 
That they only were meant for a foreigner foe; 
A white willow wand has been put in his hand — 
A type of pure, upright, and gentle command — 
While hierarchs are blessing, the slipper they 

fling, 
And O'Oathain proclaims him A True Irish 

Kino ! 



Thrice looked he to Heaven with thanks and 

with prayer — 
Thrice looked to his borders with sentinel stare — 
To the waves of Loch n-Eathach, 1 the heights 

of Strathbhan ;» 
And thrice on his allies, and thrice on his clan — 
One clash on their bucklers ! — one more — they 

are still — 
What means the deep pause on the crest of the 

hill? 
Why gaze they above him ? — a war-eagle's wing ! 
" "lis an omen ! — Hurrah ! for Tub True Irish 

King!" 



God aid him ! — God save him ! — and smile on 

his reign — 
The terror of England — the ally of Spain. 
May his sword be triumphant o'er Sacsanach arts ; 
Be his throne ever girt by strong hands, and 

true hearts ! 
May the course of his conquests run on till he 

see 
The flag of Plantagenet sink in the sea ! 
May minstrels forever his victories sing, 
And saints make the bed of The True Irish 

King! 



THE GERALDINES. 



The Geraldines ! the Gcraldincs ! — 'tis full s 

thousand years 
Since, 'mid the Tuscan vineyards, bright flashed 

their battle-spears ; 



1 JLngl Lougb Seagb. 



1 AngL. Strabao*. 



When Capet seized the crown of France, theif 
iron shields were known, 

And their sabre-dint struck terror on the flanks 
of the Garonne : 

Across the downs of Hastings they spurred hard 
by William's side, 

And the gray sands of Palestine with Moslem 
blood they dyed ; — 

But never then, nor thence, till now, have false- 
hood or disgrace 

Been seen to soil Fitzgerald's plume, or mantle 
in his face. 



The Geraldines! the Geraldines! — 'tis true, in 

Strongbow's van 
By lawless force, as conquerors, their Irish reigo 

began ; 
And, oh ! through many a dark campaign they 

proved their prowess stern, 
In Leinsier's plains, and Munster's vales, on king, 

and chief, and kerne : 
But noble was the cheer within the halls so 

rudely won, 
And generous was the steel-gloved hand that 

had such slaughter done ; 
How gay their laugh, how proud their mien! 

you'd ask no herald's sign — 
Among a thousand you had known the princely 

Geraldine. 



These Geraldines! these Geraldines! — not long 

our air they breathed ; 
Not long they fed on venison, in Irish water 

seethed ; 
Not often had their children been by Irish 

mothers nursed, 
When from their full and genial hearts an Irish 

feeling burst! 
The English monarchs strove in vain, by law, 

and force, and bribe, 
To win from Irish thoughts and ways this " more 

than Irish" tribe ; 
For still they clung to fosterage, to breilheam'k, 

cloak, and bard : 
What king dare say to Geraldine, " Your Irish 

wife discard J" 



Ye Geraldines ! ye Geraldines ! how royally ye 

reigned 
O'er Desmond broad, and rich Kildare, and 

English arts disdained : 




, 






THE POEMS OF THOMAS 1>AVIS 



Your sword made knights, your banner waved, 

free was your bugle call 
By Gleann's 1 green slopes, and DaingeanV 

tide, from BearbliaV banks to Eochaill. 4 ' 
What gorgeous shrines, what breitheamh 6 lore, 

what minstrel feasts there were 
In and around Magh Nuadhaid's 6 keep, and 

palace filled Adare ! 
But not for rite or feast ye stayed, when friend 

or kin were pressed ; 
And focinen fled, when " Crom Abu" ' bespoke 

your lance in rest. 



Ye Geraldines ! ye Geraldines ! — since Silken 

Thomas flung 
King Henry's sword on council board, the Eng- 
lish thanes among, 
Ye never ceased to battle brave against the 

English sway, 
Though axe and brand and treachery your 

proudest cut away. 
Of Desmond's blood, through woman's veins 

passed on th' exhausted tide ; 
His title lives — a Sacsanach churl usurps the 

lion's hide ; 
And, thong! Kildare tower haughtily, there's 

ruin at the root, 
Else why, sin^e Edward fell to earth, had such 

a tree no fruit ? 



True Geraldines ! brave Geraldines ! — as torrents 
mould the earth, 

You channelled deep old Ireland's heart by con- 
stancy and worth : 

When Ginckle 'leaguered Limerick, the Irish sol- 
diers gazed 

To see if in the setting sun dead Desmond's ban- 
ner blazed ! 

And still it is the peasant's hope upon the Cuir- 
reachV mere, 

"Tjey live who'll see ten thousand men with 
good Lord Edward here" — 

So let them dream till brighter days, when, not 
by Edward's shade, 

But by some leader true as he, their lines shall 
be arrayed ! 



1 Angl. Glj-n. 2 Angl. ninsjie. 8 Angl. Barrow. 

iAngl. YoughaL 5 Angl. Brelion. 6 Angl. Mnynoo 

1 Formerly tin- war-cry of ihc Geraldines and now their mot 

8 Angl. Currash. 

9 The concluding stanza, now first published, was found am 
he rathor'a papers.— Ed. 



These Geraldines ! these Geraldines ! — rain wean 

away the rock, 
And time may wear away the tribe that stood 

the battle's shock, 
But, ever, sure, while one is left of all that 

honored race, 
In front of Ireland's chivalry is that Fitzgerald's 

place : 
And, though the last were dead and gone, how 

many a field and town, 
From Thomas Court to Abbeyfeile, would cherish 

their renown, 
And men would say of valor's rise, or ancient 

power's decline, 
"'Twill never soar, it never shone, as did the 

Geraldine." 



The Geraldines! the Geraldines! — and are there 

any fears 
Within the sons of conquerors for full a thou- 
sand years ? 
Can treason spring from out a soil bedewed with 

martyrs' blood? 
Or has that grown a purling brook, which long 

rushed down a flood ? — 
By Desmond swept with sword and fire, — by 

clan and keep laid low, — 
By Silken Thomas and his kin, — by sainted 

Edward! No! 
The forms of centuries rise up, and in the Irish 

line 
Command their son to take the post that 

fits the Geraldine !' 



O'BRIEN OF ARA. 10 

Aib— The Piper of BUssington. 



Tall are the towers of O'Ceinneidigh" — 
Broad are the lands of MacCarrthaigh"- 

Desmond feeds five hundred men a day; 
Yet, here's to O'Briain 13 of Ara! 



10 Ara is a small mountain tract, south of Loch Delrgdheirc, and 
north of the Oamailte {vidi/n, the Keeper) hills. It was the seat oJ 
a branch of the Thomund princes, called the O'Briens of Ara, wh« 
hold an important place in the Munster Annals.— Adtuok's Nom 

11 Vulgo, O'Kennedy. 12 VuL M'Carthy. 
18 TuL O'Brien. 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar, 1 
Down from the top of Caraailte, 

Clansman and kinsman are coming here 
To give him the cead mile failte. 



See you the mountains look huge at eve — 

So is our chieftain in battle — 
Welcome he has for the fugitive, — 
Uisce-beatha* fighting, and cattle! 
Up from the Oastle of Druim-amar, 

Down from the top of Camailte, 
Gossip and ally are coming here 
To give him the cead mile failte. 



Horses the valleys are tramping on, 

Sleek from the Sacsanach manger — 
Creach>i the hills are encamping on, 
Empty the bans of the stranger ! 
Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar, 

Down from the top of Camailte, 
Ceitheam 3 and buannachl are coming hero 
To give him the cead mile failte. 



He has black silver from Cill-da-lua 4 

Rian' and Cearbhall 8 are neighbors — 
'N Aonach 1 submits with nfuililiu — 
Butler is meat for our sabres ! 

Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar, 

Down from the top of Camailte, 
Rian and Cearbhall are coming here 
To give'him the cead mile failte. 



'Tis scarce a week since through Osairghe* 

Chased he the Baron of Durmhagh' — 
Forced him five rivers to cross, or he 

Had died by the sword of Red Murchadb. !'• 
Up from the Castle of Druim-aniar, 
Down from the top of Camailte, 
All the Ui Bhriain are comrng here 
To give him the cead mile failte. 



Tall are the towers of O'Ceinneidigh — 
Broad are the lands of MacCarrthaigh- 

Desmond feeds five hundred men a day ; 
Yet, here's to O'Briain of Ara ! 



Up from the Castle of. Druim-aniar, 
Down from the top of Camailte, 

Clansman and kinsman are coming here 
To give him the cbad mile failte. 



EMMELINE TALBOT. 
a ballad of the pale. 

(The Scene Is on the borders of Dublin and Wloklow.J 



'Twas a September day- 

In Glenismole," 
Emmeline Talbot lay 
On a green knoll. 
She was a lovely thing, 
Fleet as a Falcon's wing, 
Only fifteen that spring- 
Soft was her soul. 



Danger and dreamless sleep 

Much did she scorn, 
And from her father's keep 

Stole out that morn. 
Towards Glenismole she hies:- 
Sweetly the valley lies, 
Winning the enterprise — 

No one to warn. 



Till by the noon, at length, 

High in the vale, 
Emmeline found her strength 

Suddenly fail. 
Panting, yet pleasantly, 
By Dodder side lay she — 
Thrushes sang merrily, 

" Hail, sister, hail !" 



Hazel and copse of oak 
Made a sweet lawn, 

Out from the thicket broke 
Rabbit and fawn. 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



Green were the eiicirs round, 


March-men, all stanch and stout, 


Sweet was the river's sound, 


Shouting their Belgard shout — 


Eastwards flat Ciuach frowned, 


" Down with the Irish rout, 


South lay Sliahh Ban. 


Prets d'accomplir." 5 


v. 
Looking round Barnakeel, 1 


X. 

Taken thus unawares, 


Like a tall Moor 


Some fled amain — 


Full of impassioned zeal, 


Fighting like forest bears, 


Peeped brown Kippure.' 


Others were slain. 


Dublin in feudal pride, 


To the chief clung the maid — 


And many a hold beside, 


How could he use his blade ?— 


Over Finn-ghaill" preside — 


That night, upon him weighed 


Sentinels sure ! 


Fetter and chain. 


VI. 

Is that a roebuck's eye 


XI. 

Oh ! but that night was long, 


Glares from the green ? — 


Lying forlorn, 


Is that a thrush's cry 


Since, 'mid the wassail song, 


Rings in the screen? 


These words were borne — 


Mountaineers round her sprung, 


" Nathless your tears and cries, 


Savage their speech and tongue, 


Sure as the sun shall rise, 


Fierce was their chief and young- 


Connor O'Byrne' dies, 


Poor Emmeline ! 


Talbot hath sworn." 


VII. 


XII. 


a Hurrah, 'tis Talbot's child," 


Brightly on Tamhlacht' hill 
Flashes the sun ; 


Shouted the kerne, 


u Off to the mountains wild, 


Strained at his window-sill, 


Faire* O'Byrne !" 


How his eyes run 


Like a bird in a net, 


From lonely Sagart slade 


Strove the sweet maiden yett, 


Down to Tigh-bradan glade, 


Praying and shrieking, " Let — 


Landmarks of border raid, 


Let me return." 


Many a one. 


VIII. 


XIII. 


After a moment's doubt, 


Too well the captive knows 


Forward he sprung, 


Belgard's main wall 


With his sword flashing out- 


Will, to his naked blows, 


Wrath on his tongue. 


Shiver and fall, 


" Touch not a hair of hers — 


Ere in his mountain hold 


Dies he, who finger stirs!" 


He shall again behold 


Back fell his foragers — 


Those whose proud hearts are cold, 


To him she clung. 


Weeping his thrall. 


IX. 


XIV. 


Soothing the maiden's fear, 


" Oh ! for a mountain side, 


Kneeling was he, 


Bucklers and brands ! 


When burst old Talbot's spears 


Freely I could have died 


Out on the lea. 


Heading my bands, 


1 Bib. Bearna-chaeL 2 Bib. Keap-iubhalr. 


S The motto and cry of the Talbotn. 


• Tnlg FingaL * Vulg. Farrab. 


6 Bib. Conchobhar O'Broin. 1 Vulg. Tallajbt 



510 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



But on a felon tree"— 
Bearing a fetter key, 
By him all silently 
Emmclinc stands. 



Late rose the castellan, 

He had drunk deep, — 
Warder and serving-man 

Still were asleep, — 
Wide is the castle-gate, 
Open the captive's grate, 
Fetters disconsolate 
Flung in a heap. * * 

xvr. 
Tis an October day, 

Close by Loch Dan 
Many a creach lay, 

Many a man. 
'Mongst them, in gallant i 
Connor O'Biyne's seen 
Wedded to Emmeline, 

Girt by his clan ! 



O'SULLIVAN'S RETURN. 1 

Air — An crulegin Idn. 1 

O'Suillebhain has come 
Within sight of his home, 

He had left it long years ago; 
The tears are in his eyes, 
And he prays the wind to rise, 
As he looks towards his castle, from the prow, 

from the prow ; 
As he looks towards his castle, from the prow. 

ii. 

For the day had been calm, 
And slow the good ship swam, 

And the evening gun had been fired; 
He knew the hearts beat wild 
Of mother, wife, and child, 
And of, clans, who to see him long desired, long 

desired ; 
And of clans, who to see him long desired. 



1 Vide Appendix. 

2 Slow time. 

8 The standard bearings of 0'3nllf van. See O'Donovan'a edition 
f the Banquet of Dun na n-Geilh, and the Battle of Mngh Uatb, 
Drthe ArchBological Society, App, p. 349— " Bearings of O'Sul- 
ivan at the Battle of Citl-glinn." 

** I see, mightily advancing on the plain, 
The banner of the race of noble Finghin ; 



Of the tender ones the elasp, 
Of the gallant ones the grasp, 

He thinks, until his tears fall warm ; 
And full seems his wide hall, 
With friends from wall to wall, 
Where their welcome shakes the banners, like a 

storm, like a storm ; 
Where their welcome shakes the banners like a 
storm. 



Then he sees another scene — 
Norman churls on the green — 

" O'S'iilleabhain abu" is the cry; 
For filled is his ship's hold 
With arms and Spanish gold, 
And he sees the snake-twined spear wave on 

high, wave on high ; 
And he sees the snake-twined spear ware on 
high.' 



" Finghin's race shall be freed 
From the Norman's cruel breed — 
My sires freed Bear' once before, 
When the Barn wells were strewn 
On the fields, like hay in June, 
And but one of them escaped from our shore, 

from our shore ; 
And but one of them escaped from our 
shore." 4 



And, warming in his drearr, 
He floats on victory's stream, 

Til! Desmond— till all Erin is free! 
Then, how calmly ho'll go down, 
Full of years and of renown, 
To his grave near that castle by the sea, by th 

sea ; 
To his grave luar that castle by the sea ! 



Lut the wind heard his word, 
As though he were its lord, 

And tiic ship is dashed up the Bay. 

Hl9 spear with a venomous adder (entwined), 

Ilia host all fiery champions." 
Finghin was one of their ino-t famous progenitors,— A othok*8 Note. 
4 The Barnvvells were Normans, who seized part of Beara in the 
reign of Henry 1 1. ; but the O'Sullivans came down on tliem, and 
cutoff all save one— a young man who settled at Driiunagli Castle 
Co. Dublin, and was ancestorto the Barn we lis, Lords of Trluleetone 
end Klngsland. — Id, 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



Alas ! for that proud bark, 

The night has fallen dark, 
Tis too late to Eadarghabhal 1 to bear away, 

bear away ; 
Tis too late to Eadarghabhal to bear away. 



Black and rough was the rock, 
And terrible the shock, 

As the good ship crashed asunder ; 
And bitter was the cry, 
And the sea ran mountains high, 
And the wind was as loud as the thunder, the 

thunder ; 
And the wind was as loud as the thunder. 



There's woe in Beara, 
There's woe in Gleann-garbh, 3 
And from Beanntraighe 3 
kiarain ;* 
All Desmoud hears their grief, 
And wails above their chief — 
u Is it thus, is it thus, that you return, you re- 
turn — 
T» it thus, is it thus, that you return 3" 



Dun- 



THE FATE OF THE O'SULLIVANS. 5 



" A badt in the mountain gap — 

Oh ! wherefore bring it hither? 
Restore it to its mother's lap, 

Or else 'twill surely wither. 
A baby near tlie eagle's nest ! 

How should their talons spare it ? 
Oh 1 take it to some woman's breast, 

And she will kindly care it." 



" Fear not for it," M'Swiney said, 
And stroked his cul-fionn 6 slowly, 



1 Vui, Adragoole. 2 Yul. Glengarrlff. 

8 Vol. Bantry. 4 Vol. Dunkerron. 

5 After the taking of Dunbwy, ami the ruin of the O'SulIivan's 
Country, the chit-f mari-hed right through Muskerry anil Ortnond, 
hotly pursued. He crossed the Shannon in curavhg made of his 
horse*' skins, lie then defeated the English forces and slew their 
•ominander. Manny, and finally fought his way into O'Ruarc's 
aoumry During his absence his lady (Beuntighearna) and in- 
tun were supported in the mountains by one of his clansmen, 



And proudly raised his matted head. 
Yet spoke me soft and lowly — 

" Fear not for it, for, many a day, 
I climb the eagle's eyrie, 

And bear the eaglet's food away 
To feed our little fairy. 



" Fear not for it, no Bantry bird 

Would harm our chieftain's baby" — 
He stopped, and something in him stirred- 

'Twas for his chieftain, may be. 
And then he brushed his softened eyes, 

And raised his bonnet duly, 
And muttered, "The Beantighearna lies 

Asleep in yonder buaili." ' 



He pointed 'twixt the cliff and lake, 

And there a hut of heather, 
Half hidden in the craggy brake, 

Gave shelter from the weather; 
The little tanist shrieked with joy, 

Adown the gully staring — 
The clansman swelled to see the boy, 

O'Sullivan-like, daring. 



Oh ! what a glorious sight was there, 

As from the summit gazing, 
O'er winding creek and islet fair, 

And mountain waste amazing; 
The Caha and Dunkerron hills 

Cast half the gulfs in shadow, 
While shone the sun on Culiagh's rills, 

And Whiddv's emerald meadow — 



The sea a sheet of crimson spread, 

From Foze to Dursey islands ; 
While flashed the peaks from Mizenhead 

To Musk'ry's distant highlands — 
I saw no kine, I saw no sheep, 

I saw nor house nor furrow ; 
But round the tarns the red deer leap, 

Oak and arbutus thorough. 

M'Swiney, who, tradition says, used to rob the eagles' nests of 
their prey for his charge O'Suliivan was excepted from James 
the First's amnesty on account of his persevering resistance. He 
went to Spain, and was appointed governor of Corunna and Vis- 
count Berehaveu. Bis march from Olengarrlff to Leltrim Is, per- 
haps, the most romantic and gallant achievement of his age.— 
Author's Note. 

6 Vulgo, couiin. 

T Vulgo, boulle. 






512 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



Oli ! what a glorious sight was there, 

That paradise o'ergazing— 
When, sudden, burst a smoky glare, 

Above Glengarriif blazing — 
The clansman sprung upon his feet — 

Well might the infant wonder — 
His hands were clenched, his brow was knit, 

His hard lips just asunder. 



Like shattered rock from out the ground, 

He stood there stiff and silent — 
Our breathing hardly made a sound, 

As o'er the baby I leant ; 
His figure then went to and fro, 

As the tall blaze would flicker- 
And as exhausted it sunk low, 

His breath came loud and thicker. 



Then slowly turned he round his head 

And slowly turned his figure, 
His eye was fixed as Spanish lead, 

His limbs were full of rigor — 
Then suddenly he grasped the child, 

And raised it to his shoulder, 
Then pointing where, across the wild, 

The fire was seen to smoulder : — 



14 Look, baby ! — look, there is the sign, 

Your father is returning, 
The ' generous hand' of Finghin's line 

Has set that beacon burning. 
' The generous hand' — Oh ! Lord of Hosts — 

Oh, Virgin, ever holy ! 
There's naught to give on Bantry's coasts — 

Dunbwy is lying lowly. 



"The halls, where mirth and minstrelsy 

Than Beara's wind rose louder, 
Are flung in masses lonelily, 

And black with English powder — 
The sheep that o'er our mountains ran, 

The kine that filled our valleys, 
Are gone, and not a single claa 

O'Sullivan now rallies. 



' He, long the Prince of hill and bay I 
The ally of the Spaniard! 



Has scarce a single ath to day, 
Nor seamen left to man yard" — 

M'Swiney ceased, then fiercely 3trode 
Bearing along the baby, 

Until we reached the rude abode 
Of Bantry's lovely lady. 

XIII. 

We found her in the savage shed — 

A mild night in midwinter — 
The mountain heath her only bed, 

Her dais the rocky splinter! 
The sad Beantighearti 1 had seen the fire— 

'Twas plain she had been prating— 
She seized her son, as we came nigher, 

And welcomed me, thus saying — 



" Our gossip's friend I gladly greet, 

Though scant' ly I can cheer hiui ;' 
Then bids the clansman fly to meet 

And tell her lord she's near him. 
M'Swiney kissed his foster son, 

And shouting out lusfaire — 
" 0' Suillebhain abu" — is gone 

Like Marchman's deadly arrow ! 



An hour went by, when, from the shore 

The chieftain's horn winding, 
Awoke the echoes' hearty roar — 

Their fealty reminding : 
A moment, and he faintly gasps — 

" These — these, thank heaven, are left me" 
And smiles as wife and child he clasps — 

" They have not quite bereft me." 



I never saw a mien so grand, 

A brow and eye so fearless — 
There was not in his veteran band 

A single eyelid tearless. 
His tale is short — O'Ruarc's strength 

Could not postpone his ruin, 
And Leitrim's towers he left at length. 

To spare his friend's undoing. 



To Spain — to Spain, he now will sail, 

His destiny is wroken — 
An exile from dear Inis-fail,— 

Nor yet his will is broken; 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



For still he hints some enterprise, 
When fleets shall bring them over 

Dunbwy's proud keep again shall rise, 
And mock the English rover. * * * 



I saw them cross SHeve Miskisk o'er, 

The crones around them weeping — 
I saw them pass from Culiagh's shore, 

Their galleys' strong oars sweeping, 
I saw their ship unfurl its sail — 

I saw their scarfs long waven — 
They saw the hills in distance fail — 

They never saw Berehaven ! 



THE SACK OF BALTIMORE. 1 



Dhk summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's 

hundred isles — 
The summer's sun is gleaming still through 

Gabriel's rough defiles — 
Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane loeks like a 

moulting bird ; 
And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide 

is heard ; 
The hookers lie upon the beach ; the children 

cease their play ; 
The gossips leave the little inn ; the households 

kneel to pray — 
And full of love, and peace, and rest — its daily 

labor o'er — 
Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of 

Baltimore. 



deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with 
midnight there ; 

sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth, 

or sea, or air. 

1 Baltimore is a Binall seaport Id the barony of Carbery, in South 
Monster. It grew np round a Caatle of O'D' iscoll's. and was. after 
bis ruin, colonized by the English, On the '20th of June. 1631, the 
arew of two Alzerine "alleys landed in the dead of the night, sacked 
the town, and bore off into slavery all w ho were not too old. or too 
young, or too fierce for their purpose. The pirates were steered up 
the Intricate channel by one Haokett, a Dungarvan nabermau, whom 



The massive capes, and ruined towers, seem con- 
scious of the calm ; 

The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing 
heavy balm. 

So still the night, these two long barques, round 
Dunashad that glide, 

Must trust their oars — methinks not few — against 
the ebbing tide — 

Oh ! some sweet mission of true love must urge 
them to the shore — 

They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs 
in Baltimore ! 



All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky 
street, 

And these must be the lover's friends, with gen- 
tle gliding feet — 

A stifled gasp! a dreamy noise! "the roof is in 
a flame !" 

From out their beds, and to their doors, rush 
maid, and sire, and dame — 

And meet, upon the threshold stone, the gleam- 
ing sabre's fall, 

And o'er each black and bearded face the white 
or crimson shawl — 

The yell of " Allah" breaks above the prayer, 
and shriek, and roar — 

Oh, blessed God ! the Algerine is lord of Balti- 



Then flung the youth his naked hand against, the 

shearing sword ; 
Then sprung the mother on the brand with 

which her son was gored ; 
Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grand- 
babes clutching wild ; 
Then fled the maiden'moaning faint, and nestled 

with the child ; 
But see, yon pirate strangled lies, and crushed 

with splashing heel, 
While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps 

his Syrian steel — 
Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers 

yield their store, 
There's one hearth well avenged in the sack of 

Baltimore ! 



they had taken at sea for the purpose. Two years after he was 
convicted and executed for the crime. Baltimore never recovered 
this. To the artist the antiquary, and the naturalist, its neighbor- 
hood Is most lnteresting.-8ee "The Ancient and Present State o. 
tho County and City of Cork," by Charles Smith, M. D., toL 1 
p. 270. 8ocond edition. Dublin, 1774.— Aothoe'sNotk. 







THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



Midsummer morn, in woodland nigb, the birds 

began to sing — 
They see not now the milking maids — deserted 

is the spring ! 
Midsummer day — this gallant rides from distant 

Bandon's town — 
These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that 

skin from Affadown ; 
They only found the smoking walls, with neigh- 
bors' blood besprent, 
And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile 

they wildly went — 
Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape Cleire, and 

saw five leagues before 
The pirate galleys vanishing that ravaged Balti- 



Oh ' some must tug the galley's oar, and some 

must tend the steed — 
This boy will bear a Scheik's chibouk, and that 

a Bey's jerreed. 
Oh ! some are for the arsenals, by beauteous 

Dardanelles ; 
And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy 

dells. 
The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen 

for the Dey — 
She's sate — she's dead — she stabbed him in the 

midst of his Serai; 
And, when to die a death of fire, that noble 

maid they bore, 
She only smiled— O'Driscoll's child— she thought 

of Baltimore. 



Tis two long years since sunk the town 

that bloody band, 
And all around its trampled hearths a larger 

concourse stand, 
Where, high upon a gallows tree, a yelling 

wretch is seen — 
Tis Hackett of Dungarvan — he, who steered 

the Algerine! 
He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing 

prayer, 
Far be had slain the kith and kin of many a 

hundred there — 



1 Commonly called Owen Boe O'Neill Tide Appendix. 



Some muttered of MacMurchadh, who brought 

the Norman o'er — 
Some cursed him with Iscariot^ that day in 

Baltimore. 



LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF EOGHAN 
RUADH O'NEILL. 1 



[Time— 10th November, 1649. Scene— Ormonil's Camp, County 
Waterford. Speakers— A Veteran of Eoghan O'Neill's clan, and 
one of the horsemen j&st arrived with an aoconnt of his death.) 



" Did they dare, did they dare, to slay Eoghan 

Ruadh O'Neill ?" 
"Yes, they slew with poison him, they feared 

to meet with steel." 
" May God wither up their hearts ! May their 

blood cease to flow ! 
May they walk in living death, who poisoned 

Eoghan Ruadh ! 



" Though it break my heart to hear, say agaiD 

the bitter words." 
" From Derry, against Cromwell, he marched to 

measure swords ; 
But the weapon of the Sacsanach met him on 

his way, 
And he died at Cloeh Uachtar, 8 upon Saint 

Leonard's day." 

m. 

" Wail, wail ye for the Mighty One ! Wail, 

wail ye for the Dead ; 
Quench the hearth, and hold the breath — with 

ashes strew the head. 
How tenderly we loved him ! How deeply we 

deplore ! 
Holy Saviour ! but to think we shall never set 

him more ! 

IV. 

" Sagest in the council was he, kindest in the 

Hall : 
Sure we never wod a battle- -'tw&s Eoghan won 

them all. 
Had he lived — had be lived — our dear country 

had been free ; 
But he's dead, but he's dead, and 'ti» slave* 

we'll ever be. 






THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



51S 



• O'Farrell and Clanrickarde, Preston and Red 

Hugh, 
Audley and MaoMahon — ye are valiant, wise, 

and true ; 
But — what, what are ye all to our darling who 

is gone ? 
The Rudder of our ship was he, our Castle's 

corner-stone ! 



"Wail, wail him through the Island! Weep, 

weep for our pride ! 
Would that on the battle-field our gallant chief 

had died ! 
Weep the Victor of Beann-bhorbh 1 — weep him, 

young man and old ; 
Weep for him, ye women — your Beautiful lies 

cold ! 



" We thought you would not die — we were sure 

you would not go, 
And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell's 

cruel blow — 
Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts 

out the sky — 
Oh ! why did you leave us, Eoghan ? Why did 

vou die ? 



"Soft as woman's was your voice, O'Neill! 

bright was your eye, 
Oh ! why did you leave us, Eoghan ? why did 

you die ? 
Your troubles are all over, you're at rest with 

God on high ; 
But we're slaves, and we're orphans, Eoghan ! — 

why did you die ?" 



A RALLY FOR IRELAND.' 
[mat, 1689.] 8 



Shout it out, till it ring 

From Beann-mhor to Cape Cleire, 
For our country and king, 

And religion so dear. 



Rally, men ! rally — 
Irishmen ! rally ! 
Gather round the dear flag, that, wet with our 

tears, 
And torn, and bloody, lay hid for long years, 
And now, once again, in its pride reappears. 
See ! from The Castle our green banner 

waves, 
Bearing fit motto for uprising slaves — 
For Now ok nevkr ! 

NOW AND FOREVER ! 

Bids you to battle for triumph or graves — 
Bids you to burst on the Sacsanach knaves — 

Rally, then, rally ! 

Irishmen, raHy ! 

Shout NOW OR NEVER ! 
NOW AND FOREVEli! 

Heed not their fury, however it raves, 
Welcome their horsemen with pikes and with 

staves, 
Close on their cannon, their bay'nets, and 

glaives, 
Down with their standard wherever it waves ; 
Fight to the last, and ye cannot be slaves ! 
Fight to the last, and ye cannot be slaves ! 

ii. 
Gallant Sheldon is here, 

And Hamilton, too, 
And Tircbonaill so dear, 

And Mac Carrthaigh, so true. 
And there are Frenchmen; 
Skilful and stanch men — ■ 
De Rosen, Pontee, Pusignan, and Boisseleau, 
And gallant Lauzun is a coming, you know, 
With Balldearg, the kinsman of great Eoghan 
Ruadh. 
From Sionainn to Banna, from Life to 

Laoi, 4 
The country is rising for Libertie. 
Though your arms are rude, 
If your courage be good, 
As the traitor fled will the stranger flee, 
At another Drommor, from " the Irishry." 
Aim, peasant and lord ! 
Grasp musket and sword ! 
Grasp pike-staff and slcian ! 
Give your horses the rein ' 
March, in the name of his Majesty — 
Ulster and Munster unitedly— 



516 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



Townsman and peasant, like waves of the i 
Leinster and Connacht to victory — 
Shoulder to shoulder fur Liberty, 
Shoulder to shoulder lor Liberty. 



Kirk, Schomberg, and Churchill 

Are coming— what then ? 
We'll drive them and Dutch Will 
To England again ; 

We can laugh at each threat, 
For our Parliament's met — 
De Courcy, O'Briain, Mac Domhnail, Le Poer, 
O'Neill and St. Lawrence, and others go lenr, 
The choice of the land from Athluain 1 to the 
shore ! 
They'll break the last link of the Sacsanach 

chain — 
They'll give us the lands of our fathers again ! 
Then up ye ! and fight 
For your King and your Right, 
Or ever toil on, and never complain, 
Though they trample your root-tree, and rifle 
your fane. 

Rally, then, rally ! 
Irishmen, rally — 
Fight Now OK. NEVER, 

Now and forevkk! 
Laws are in vain without swords to maintain ; 
So, muster as fast as the fall of the rain : 
Serried and rough as a field of ripe grain, 
Stand by your flag upon mountain and plain ; 
Charge till yourselves or your foemen are 

slain ! 
Fight till yourselves or your foemen are slain ! 






THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK.' 
[August 27, 1690.] 
Am — Oarradh Eaghain. 1 



Oh, hurrah 1 for the men who, when danger is 

nigh, 
Are found in the front, looking death in the eye. 
Hurrah ! for the men who kept Limerick's wall, 
And hurrah ! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all. 



1 Fulgo, Athlone. 



2 Vide Appendix. 



King William's men round Limerick lay, 
His cannon crashed from day to day, 
Till the southern wall was swept away 

At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas.* 
'Tis afternoon, yet hot the sun, 
When William fires the signal gun, 
And, like its flash, his columns run 

On the city of Luimneach Linn-ghlas. 



Yet, hurrah ! for the men who, when danger it 

nigh, 
Are found in the front, looking death in the 

eye, 
Hnrrah ! for the men who laept Limerick's wall, 
And hurrah ! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all. 
The breach gaped out two perches wide, 
The fosse is filled, the batteries plied ; 
Can the Irishmen that onset bide 

At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. 
Across the ditch the columns dash, 
Their bayonets o'er the rubbish flash, 
When sudden comes a rending crash 
From the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. 



Then, hurrah ! for the men who, when danger is 

nigh, 
Are found in the front, looking death in the eye. 
Hurrah ! for the men who kept Limerick's wall, 
And hurrah ! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all. 
The bullets rain in pelting shower, 
And rocks and beams from wall and tower ; 
The Englishmen are glad to cower 

At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. 

But, rallied soon, again they pressed, 

Their bayonets pierced full many a breast, 

Till they bravely won the breach's crest 

At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. 



Yet, hurrah ! for the men who, when 

nigh, 
Are found in the front, looking death in the eye. 
Hurrah ! for the men who kept Limerick's wall, 
And hurrah ! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all. 
Then fiercer grew the Irish yell, 
And madly on the foe they fell, 
Till the breach grew like the jaws of hell — 
Not the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. 

See "The Circuit of Ireland , * 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



517 



The women fought before the men, 
Each man became a match for ten, 
So back they pushed the villains then, 
From the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. 



Then, hurrah ! for the men who, when danger is 

nigh, 
Are found in the front, looking death in the 

eye. 
Hurrah! for the men who kept Limerick's 

wall, 

And hurrah ! for bold Sarsfield, the bravest of all. 

But Bradenburgh the ditch has erost, 

And gained our flank at little cost — 

The bastion's gone — the town is lost ; 

Oh ! poor city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. 



When, sudden, Sarsfield springs the mine, 
Like rockets rise the Germans fine, 
And come down dead 'mid smoke and shine. 
At the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. 

VI. 

So, hurrah! for the men who, when danger is nigh, 
Are found in the front, looking death in the eye. 
Hurrah ! for the men who kept Limerick's wall, 
And hurrah ! for bold Sarsflel.l, the bravest of all. 
Out, with a roar, the Irish sprung, 
And back the beaten English flung, 
TSsll William fled, his lords among, 

From the city of Luimneach linn-ghlas. 
'Twas thus was fought that glorious fight, 
By Irishmen, for Ireland's right — 
May all such days have such a night 
As the battle of Luimneach linn-ghlas. 






F^RT IV. 

gallaas anfo jiongs illustrative of Jrisjj Jpstorg. 



"By a Ballad History we do not mean a metrical chronicle, or 
any continued work, bat a string of ballads chronologically 
arranged, and illustrating the main events of Irish History, its 
characters, cnstoms, scenes, and passions. 

"Exact dates, subtle plots, minute connections and motives, 
rarely appear in Ballads; and for these enils the worst prose his- 
tory is superior to the best BalU-d series; but these are not the 
highest ends of history. To hallow or accurse the scenes of glory 
and honor, or of shame and sorrow — to give to the imagination the 
arms, and homes and senates, and buttles of other days — to rouse 
and soften and strengthen and enlarge us with the passions of great 
periods — to lead us into love of self-denial, of justice, of beauty, of 
valor, of generous life and proud death— and to set up in our souls 
the memory of great men, who shall then be as models and judges 
of our actions— these are the highest duties of History, and these 
are best taught by a Ballad History."— Davis's Essays. 



THE PENAL DAYS. 

Aut—Tfa Wheelwright. 



Oh ! weep those days, the penal days, 
When Ireland hopelessly complained 

Oh ! weep those days, the penal days, 
When godless persecution reigned ; 



When, year by year, 

For serf and peer, 
Fresh cruelties were made by law, 

And, filled with hate, 

Our senate sate 
To weld anew each fetter's flaw ; 
Oh ! weep those days, those penal days — 
Their memory still on Ireland weighs. 



They bribed the flock, they bribed the son, 

To sell the priest and rob the sire ; 
Their dogs were taught alike to run 
Upon the scent of wolf and friar. 
Among the poor, 
Or on the moor, 
Were hid the pious and the true- 
While traitor knave, 
And recreant slave, 
Had riches, rank, and retinue : 
And, exiled in those penal days, 
Our banners over Europe blaze. 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



A. stranger held the land and tower 

Of many a noble fugitive ; 
No popish lord had lordly power, 
The peasant scarce had leave to live : 
Above his head 
A ruined shed, 
No tenure but a tyrant's will — 
Forbid to plead, 
Forbid to read, 
Disarmed, disfranchised, imbecile — 
What wonder if our step betrays 
The freedman, born in penal days? 



They're gone, they're gone, those penal days! 

All creeds are eq,ual in our isle ; 
Then grant, O Lord, thy plenteous grace, 
Our ancient feuds to reconcile. 
Let all atone 
For blood and groan, 
For dark revenge and open wrong, 
Let all unite 
For Ireland's right, 
And drown our griefs in freedom's song; 
Till time shall veil in twilight haze, 
The memory of those penal days. 



THE DEATH OF SARSFIELD.' 



A CHANT OF THE BRIGADE. 



Sarsfield has sailed from Limerick Town, 
He held it long for country and crown ; 
And ere he yielded, the Saxon swore 
To spoil our homes and our shrines no more. 



Sarsfield and all his chivalry 

Are fighting for France in the low coun-trie— 

At his fiery charge the Saxons reel, 

They learned at Limerick to dread the steel. 



As he lay on the lit I.I unheln 
breast When he took it a\vaj 
Vlf at it sadly wnh an eye in 



Sarsfield is dying on Landen's plain ; 

His corslet hath met the ball in vain — 

As his life-blood gushes into his hand, 

He says, " Oh ! that this was for father-land !" 



is dead, yet no tears shed we — 
For he died in the arras of Victory, 
And his dying words shall edge the brand, 
When we chase the foe from our native land t 



THE SURPRISE OF CREMONA. 



(1702.) 



From Milan to Cremona Duke Villeroy rode, 
And soft are the beds in his princely abode ; 
In billet and barrack the garrison sleep, 
And loose i< the watch which the sentinels keep: 
'Tis the eve of St. David, and bitter the breeze 
Of that midwinter night on the flat Cremonese; 
A fig for precaution ! — Prince Eugene sits down 
In winter cantonments round Mantua town. 



Yet through Ustiano, and out on the plain. 
Horse, foot, and dragoons are defiling amain. 
" That flash !" said Prince Eugene, " Count Merci, 

push on" — 
Like a rock from a precipice Merci is gone. 
Proud mutters the prince — " That is CassioU'fc 

sign: 
Ere the dawn of the morning Cremona '11 bi» 

mine — 
For Merci will open the gate of the Po, 
But scant is the mercy Prince Vaudemon; will 

show !" 



Through gate, street, and square, wiU his keen 

cavaliers — 
A flood through a gully — Count Merci careers; 

fore, he eald faintly, 



for a brief 6ketch of the services of the Irish 
ji.ist or the allusions in these and several of th« 
i explained. — Ed. 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



519 



They ride without getting or giving a blow. 
Nor halt 'till they gaze on the gate of the Po : 
" Surrender the gate" — but a volley replied, . 
For a handful of Irish are posted inside. 
By ray faith, Charles Vandemont will come 

rather late, 
If he stay till Count Merci shall open that gate ! 



But in through St. Margaret's the Austrians 

pour, 
And billet and barrack are ruddy with gore; 
Unarmed and naked, the soldiers are slain — 
There's an enemy's gauntlet on Villeroy's rein — 
"A thousand pistoles and a regiment of horse — 
Release me, MacDonnell !" — they hold on their 

course. 
Count Merci has seized upon cannon and wall, 
Prince Eugene's headquarters are in the Town- 
hall ! 

v. 
Here and there, through the city, some readier 

band, 
For honor and safety, undauntedly stand. 
At the head of the regiments of Dillon and Burke 
Is Major O'Mahony, fierce as a Turk. 
His sabre is flashing — the major is drest, 
But muskets and shirts are the clothes of the 

rest! 
Yet they rush to the ramparts— the clocks have 

tolled ten — 
A.nd Count Merci retreats with the half of his 
men. 

VI. 

" In on them," said Friedberg, — and Dillon is 

broke, 
Like forest-flowers crushed by the fall of the oak ; 
Through the naked battalions the cuirassiers 

g°;— 

But the man, not the dress, makes the soldier, I 

trow. 
Upon them with grapple, with bay'net, and ball, 
Like wolves upon gaze-hounds, the Irishmen 

fall- 
Black Friedberg is slain by O'Mahony's steel, 
And back from the bullets the cuirassiers reel. 



Oh! hear you their shout in your quarters, 

Eugene ? 
In vain on Prince Vaudemont for succor you 



The bridge has been broken, and, mark ! how 

pell-mell 
Come riderless horses, and volley and yell ! — 
He's a veteran soldier — he clenches his hands, 
He springs on his horse, disengages his bands — 
He rallies, he urges, till, hopeless of aid, 
He is chased through the gates by the Irish 

Brigade. 



News, news, in Vienna ! — King Leopold's sad. 
News, news, in St. James's ! — King William is 

mad. 
News, news, in Versailles — " Let the Irish 

Brigade 
Be loyally honored, and royally paid." 
News, news, in old Ireland — high rises her 

pride, 
And high sounds her wail for her children who 

died, 
And deep is her prayer, — " God send I may seo 
MacDonnell and Mahony fighting for me." 



THE FLOWER OF FINAE. 

Bright red is the sun on the waves of Lough 
Sheelin, 

A cool gentle breeze from the mountain is steal- 
ing, 

While fair round its islets the small ripples 

play, 

But fairer than all is the Flower of Finae. 



Her hair is like night, and her eyes like gray 
morning, 

She trips on the heather as if its touch scorning, 

Yet her heart and her lips are as mild as May- 
day, 

Sweet Eily MacMahon, the Flower of Finae. 



But who down the hill-side than red deer runs 

fleeter ? 
And who on the lake side is hastening to greet 

her ? 
Who but Fergus O'Farrell, the fiery and gay, 
The darling and pride of the Flower of Finae? 



520 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



One kiss and one clasp, and one wild look of 



Ah ! why do they change on a sudden to sad- 
ness ? — : 

He has told his hard fortune, nor more he can 
stay, 

He must leave his poor Eily to pine at Finae. 



For Fergus O'Farrell was true to his sire-land, 
And the dark hand of tyranny drove him from 

Ireland ; 
He joins the Brigade, in the wars far away, 
But he vows he'll come back to the Flower of 

Finae 

VI. 

He fought at Cremona— she hears of his story ; 
He fought at Cassano — she's proud of his glory, 
Yet sadly she sings Siubhail a ruin 1 all the day, 
" Oh, come, come, my darling, come home to 
Finae." 



Eight long years have passed, till she's nigh 

broken-hearted, 
Her red and her rod, and her flax she has 

parted ; 
She sails with the "Wild Geese" to Flanders 

away, 
And leaves her sad parents alone in Finae. 



Lord Clare on the field of Eamillies is charging — 
Before him, the Sacsanach squadrons enlarging — 
Behind him the Cravats their sections display — 
Beside him rides Fergus and shouts for Finae. 



On the slopes of La Judoigne the Frenchmen are 

flying; 
Lord Clare and his squadrons the foe still defying, 
Outnumbered, and wounded, retreat in array; 
And bleeding rides Fergus and thinks of Finae. 



In the cloisters of Ypres a banner is swaying, 
And by it a pale weeping maiden is praying ; 
That flag's the sole trophy of Rainillies' fray; 
This nun is poor Eily, the Flower of Finae. 



THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME. 

Am— The girl I left behinl me. 

The dames of France are fond and free, 

And Flemish lips are willing, 
And soft the maids of Italy, 

And Spanish eyes are thrilling; 
Still, though I bask beneath their smile, 

Their charms fail to bind me, 
And my heart flies back to Erin's idle, 

To the girl I left behind me. 



For she's as fair as Shannon's side, 

And purer than its water, 
But she refused to be my bride 

Though many a year I sought her ; 
Yet, since to France I sailed away, 

Her letters oft remind me 
That I promised never to gainsay 

The girl I left behind me. 



She says — " My own dear love, come home, 

My friends are rich and many, 
Or else abroad with you I'll roam 

A soldier stout as any ; 
If you'll not come, nor let me go, 

I'll think you have resigned me." 
My heart nigh broke when I answered — No ! 

To the girl I left behind me. 



For never shall my true love brave 

A life of war and toiling ; 
And never as a skulking slave 

I'll tread my native soil on ; 
But, were it free, or to be freed, 

The battle's close would find me 
To Ireland bound — nor message need 

From the girl I left behind me. 



CLARE'S DRAGOONS.' 

Ant— Viva la. 



When, on Ramillies' bloody field, 
The baffled French were forced to yield 



2 Vide Appendix. 



1 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



The victor Saxon backward reeled 

Before the charge of Clare's Dragoons. 

The Flags, we conquered in that fray, 

Look lone in Ypres' choir, they say ; 

We'll win them company to day, 

Or bravely die like Clare's Dragoons. 

CHORUS. 

Viva la, for Ireland's wrong ! 

Viva la, for Ireland's right ! 
Viva la, in battle throng, 

For a Spanish steed, and sabre bright ! 



The brave old lord died near the fight, 
But, for each drop he lost that night, 
A Saxon cavalier shall bite 

The dust before Lord Clare's Dragoons. 
For never, when our spurs were set, 
And never, when our sabres met, 
Could we the Saxon soldiers get 

To stand the shock of Clare's Dragoons. 

CHORUS. 

Viva la, the New Brigade ! 

Viva la, the Old One, too ! 
Viva la, the rose shall fade, 

And the Shamrock shine forever new 1 



Another Clare is here to lead, 
The worthy son of such a breed ; 
The Frencli expect some famous deed, 

When Clare leads on his bold Dragoons. 
Our Coionel comes from Brian's race, 
His wounds are in his breast and face, 
The bearna baoghail ' is still his place, 

The foremost of his bold Dragoons. 

CHORUS. 

Viva la, the New Brigade ! 

Viva la, the Old One, too ! 
Viva la, the rose shall fade, 

And the Shamrock shine forever new I 



There's not a man in squadron here 
Was ever known to flinch or fear; 
Though first in charge and last in rere, 
Have ever been Lord Clare's Dragoons ; 



2 Gap of danger. 



But, see ! we'll soon have work to do, 
To shame our boasts, or prove them true, 
For hither comes the English crew, 

To sweep away Lord Clare's Dragoons. 



Viva la, for Ireland's wrong ! 

Viva la, for Ireland's right ! 
Viva la, in battle throng, 

For a Spauish steed and sabre bright ! 



Oh ! comrades ! think how Ireland pines 
Her exiled lords, her rifled shrines, 
Her dearest hope, the ordered lines, 

And bursting charge of Clare's Dragooni. 
Then bring your Green Flag to the sky, 
Be Limerick your battle-cry, 
And charge, till blood floats fetlock-high, 

Around the track of Clare's Dragoons ! 

CHORUS. 

Viva la, the New Brigade ! 

Viva la, the Old One, too ! 
Viva la, the rose shall fade, 

And the Shamrock shine forever new 1 



WHEN SOUTH WINDS BLOW. 

Air— The gentle Maiden. 



Why sits the gentle maiden there, 

While surfing billows splash around ? 
Why doth she southwards wildly stare 
And sing with such a tearful sound — 
" The Wild Geese fly where other walk ; 
The Wild Geese do what others talk — 
The way is long from France, you know — 
He'll come at last when south winds blow.' 



Oh ! softly was the maiden nurst 

In Castle Connell's lordly towers, 
Where Skellig's billows boil and burst, 
And, far above, Dunkerron towers : 
And she was noble as the hill — 
Yet battle-flags are nobler still : 
And she was graceful as the wave — 
Yet who would live a tranquil slave i 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



in. 
And, 60, her lover went to France, 

To serve the foe of Ireland's foe; 
Yet deep he Bwore — " Whatever chance, 

I'll come some day when south winds blow.' 
And prouder hopes he told beside, 
How she should be a prince's bride, 
How Louis would the Wild Geese 1 set.d, 
And Ireland's weary woes should end. 



"But, surely, that light cannot come from out 

lamp? 
' And that noise — are they all getting drut.k in 

«toe camp ?" 
" Ilurrah ! boys, the morning of battle is come, 
And the f/enerale's beating on many a drum." 
So they rush from the revel to join the parade; 
For the van is the right of The Irish Brigade. 



But tyrants quenched her father's hearth, 

And wrong and absence warped her mind; 
The gentle maid, of gentle birth, 

Is moaning madly to the wind — 
" He said he'd come, whate'er betide : 
He said I'd be a happy bride : 
Oh ! long the way and hard the foe — 
He'll come when south — when south wi 
blow !" 



; They fought as they revelled, fast, fiery, and 

true, 
I And, though victors, they left on the field not a 
few ; 
And they, who survived, fought and drank as of 
yore, 
| But the land of their heart's hope they never 
saw more ; 
For in far foreign fields, from Dunkirk to Bel- 
J grade, 

Lie the soldiers and chiefs of The Irish Brigade. 



THE BATTLE EVE OF THE BRIGADE 

Am— Contented I am. 



The mess-tent is full, and the glasses are set, 
And the gallant Count Thomond is president 

y et ; 

The vet'ran arose, like an uplifted lance, 
Crying — " Comrades, a health to the monarch 

of France !" 
With bumpers and cheers they have done as he 

bade, 
For King Louis is loved by The Irish Brigade. 



"A health to King James," and they bent as they 

quaffed ; 
" Here's to George the Elector" and fiercely they 

laughed; 
"Good luck to the girls we wooed long ago, 
Where Shannon, and Barrow, and Blackwater 

flow ;" 
" God prosper Old Ireland," — you'd think them 

afraid, 
So pale grew the chiefs of The Irish Brigade. 

1 The recruiting for the Brigade was enrried on in the French 

fttid southwestern coasts. Their return cursors -aviv recruits for 
the Brigade, ami were entered In tholr bookb a» Wild ileese. Henoa 



FONTENOY. 1 
(1745.) 



Thrice, at the huts of Fontenoy, the English 

column failed, 
And, twice, the lines of Saint Antoine, the 

Dutch in vain assailed ; 
For town and slope were filled with fort and 

flanking battery, 
And well they swept the English ranks, and 

Dutch auxiliary. 
As vainly, through De Barri's wood, the British 

soldiers burst, 
The French artillery drove them back, diminish- 
ed and dispersed. 
The bloody Duke of Cumberland beheld with 

anxious eye, 
And ordered up his last reserve, his latest chance 

to try ; 
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, how fast his genemli 

ride ! 
And mustering come his chosen troops, like 

clouds at eventide. 



this became the common name in Ireland for the Irish (ervlng in 
the Brigade. The recruiting was chiefly from Olgrt, Limerick 
Cork. Kerry, and Gulway.— Autiiok'S Noxn 
2 Vide Appendix. 






THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



523 



Six thousand English veterans in stately column 

tread, 
Their cannon blaze in front and flank, Lord Hay 

is at their head ; 
Steady they step a-down the slope — steady they 

climb the hill ; 
Steady they load — steady they fire, moving right 

onward still, 
Betwixt the wood and Fontenoy, as through a 

furnace blast, 
Through rampart, trench, and palisade, and 

bullets showering fast ; 
And on the open plain above they rose, aud 

kept their course, 
With ready fire and grim resolve, that mocked 

at hostile force : 
Past Fontenoy, past Fontenoy, while thinner 

grow their ranks — 
They break, as broke the Zuyder Zee through 

Holland's ocean banks. 



More idly than the summer flies, French tirailleurs 

rush round ; 
As stubble to the lava tide, French squadrons 

strew the ground ; 
Bomb-shell, and grape, and round-shot tore, still 

on they marched and fired — 
Fast, from each volley, grenadier and voltiguer 

retired. 
" Push on, my household cavalry !" King Louis 

madly cried : 
To death they rush, but rude their shock— not 

unavenged they died. 
On through the camp the column trod — King 

Louis turns his rein : 
"Not yet, my liege," Saxe interposed, "the irish 

troops remain ;" 
And Fontenoy, famed Fontenoy, had been a 

Waterloo, 
Were not these exiles ready then, fresh, vehement, 

and true. 



" Lord Clare," he says, " you haVe your wish, 

there are your Saxon foes !" 
The Marshal almost smiles to see, so furiously 

he goes ! 
How fierce the look these exiles wear, who're 

wont to be so gay 1 
The treasured wrongs of fifty years are in their 

hearts to-day — 



The treaty broken, ere the ink wherewith 'twas 
writ could dry, 

Their plundered homes, their ruined shrines, 
their women's parting cry, 

Their priesthood hunted down like wolves, their 
country overthrown, — 

Each looks, as if revenge for all were staked on 
him alone. 

On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, nor ever yet else- 
where, 

Bushed on to fight a nobler band than these 
proud exiles were. 



O'Brien's voice is hoarse with joy, as, halting, 

he commands, 
" Fix bay'nets," — " Charge," — Like mountain 

storm, rush on these fiery bands ! 
Thin is the English column now, and faint their 

volleys grow, 
Yet, must'ring all the strength they have, they 

make a gallant show. 
They dress their ranks upon the hill to face that 

battle-wind — 
Their bayonets the breakers' foam ; like' rocks, 

the men behind ! 
One volley crashes from their line, when, through 

the surging smoke, 
With empty guns clutched in their hands, the 

headlong Irish broke. 
On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, hark to that fierce 

huzza ! 
" Revenge ! remember Limerick ! dash down the 

Sacsanach !" 



Like lions leaping at a fold, when mad with 

hunger's pang, 
Right up against the English line the Irish exiles 

sprang : 
Bright was their steel, 'tis bloody now, their 

guns are filled with gore ; 
Through shattered ranks, and severed flies, and 

trampled flags they tore : 
The English strove with desperate strength, 

paused, rallied, staggered, fled — 
The green hill-side is matted close with dying 

and with dead. 
Across the plain, and far away passed on that 

hideous wrack, 
While cavalier and fantassin dash in upon theif 

track. 



624 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



On Fontenoy, on Fontenoy, like eagles in the 

sun, 
With bloody plumes the Irish stand — the field 

is fought and won ! 



THE DUNGANNON CONVENTION. 
(1782.) 



The church of Dungannon is full to the door, 
And sabre and spur clash at times on the floor, 
While helmet and shako are ranged all along, 
Yet no book of devotion is seen in the throng. 
In the front of the altar no minister stands, 
But the crimson-clad chief of these warrior bands ; 
And though solemn the looks and the voices 

around, 
Tou'd listen in vain for a litany's sound. 
Say ! what do they hear in the temple of 

prayer ? 
Oh ! why in the fold has the lion his lair? 



Sad, wounded, and wan was the face of our isle, 
By English oppression, and falsehood, and guile? 
Yet when to invade it a foreign fleet steered, 
To guard it for England the North volunteered. 
From the citizen-soldiers the foe fled aghast — 
Still they stood to their guns when the danger 

had past, 
For the voice of America came o'er the wave, 
Crying — Woe to the tyrant, and hope to the 

slave ! 
Indignation and shame through their regiments 

speed, 
XUey have arms in their hands, and what more 

do they need ? 



O'er the green hills of Ulster their banners are 

spread, 
The cities of Leinster resound to their tread, 
The valleys of Munster with ardor are stirred, 
And the plains of wild Connaught their bugles 

have heard ; 
A Protestant front-rank and Catholic rere — 
For — forbidden the arms of freemen to bear — 
Yet foemen and friend are full sure, if need be, 
The slave for his country will stand by the free. 



By green flags supported, the Orange flags 

wave, 
And the soldier half turns to unfetter the 

slave ! 



More honored that church of Dungannon is now, 
Than when at its altar communicants bow ; 
More welcome to heaven than anthem or prayer, 
Are the rites and the thoughts of the warriors 

there ; 
In the name of all Ireland the Delegates swore : 
" We've suffered too long, and we'll suffer no 

more — 
TJnconquered by Force, we were vanquished by 

Fraud ; 
And now, in God's temple, we vow unto God, 
That never again shall the Englishman bind 
His chains on our limbs, or his laws on our 

mind." 



The church of Dungannon is empty once more — 
No plumes on the altar, no clash on the floor, 
But the counsels of England are fluttered to 

see, 
In the cause of their country, the Irish agree ; 
So they give as a boon what they dare net 

withhold, 
And Ireland, a nation, leaps up as of old, 
With a name, and a trade, and a flag of her 

own, 
And an army to fight for the people and throne. 
But woe worth the day if to falsehood or fears 
She surrender the guns of her brave Volunteers ! 



OF THE VOLUNTEERS OF 1782. 

Am— Boyne Water. 



Hurrah ! 'tis done — our freedom's won- 

Hurrah for the Volunteers ! 
No laws we own, but those alone 

Of our Commons, King, and Peers. 
The chain is broke — the Saxon yoke 

From off our neck is taken ; 
Ireland awoke — Dungannon spoke— 

With fear was England shaken. 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



II. 

When Grattan rose, none dared oppose 


11. 

Within that host were seen 


The claim he made for freedom : 


The Orange, Blue, and Green — 


They knew our swords, to back his words, 


The Bishop for its coat left his lawn — 


Were ready, did he need them. 


The peasant and the lord 


Then let us raise, to Grattan's praise, 


Ranked in with one accord, 


A proud and joyous anthem ; 


Like brothers at a cruisgin lan, lan, lan, 


And wealth, and grace, and length of days, 


Like brothers at a cr&isgin lan ! 


May God, in mercy, grant him ! 


in. 


in. 


With liberty there came 


Bless Harry Flood, who nobly stood 


Wit, eloquence, and fame ; 


By us, through gloomy years ! 


Our feuds went like mists from the dawn ; 


Bless Charlemont, the brave and good, 


Old bigotry disdained — 


The Chief of the Volunteers ! 


Old privilege retained — 


The North began ; the North held on 


Oh! sages, fill a criiisgin lan, lan, lan, 


The strife for native land ; 


And, boys, fill up a cruisgin lan ! 


Till Ireland rose, and cowed her foes — 




God bless the Northern land ! 


IV. 




The trader's coffers filled, 


IV. 


The barren lands were tilled, 


And bless the men of patriot pen — 


Our ships on the waters thick as spawn — 


Swift, Molyneux, and Lucas ; 


Prosperity broke forth, 


Biess sword and gun, which "Free Trade" won — 


Like summer in the north — 


Bless God ! who ne'er forsook us ! 


Ye merchants ! fill a cruisgin lan, lan, lan, 


And long may last, the friendship fast, 


Ye farmers ! fill a cruisgin lan ! 


Which binds us all together ; 




While we agree, our foes shall flee 


v. 


Like clouds in stormy weather. 


The memory of that day 




Shall never pass away, 


V- 


Though its fame shall be yet outshone ; 
We'll grave it on our shrines, 


Remember still, through good and ill, 


How vain were prayers and tears — 


We'll shout it in our lines — 


How vain were words, till flashed the swords 


Old Ireland ! fill a cruisgin lan, lan, lan, 


Of the Irish Volunteers. 


Young Ireland ! fill a cruisgin lan ! 


By arms we've got the rights we sought 




Through long and wretched years — 


VI. 


Hurrah ! 'tis done, our freedom's won — 


And drink — The Volunteers, 


Hurrah for the Volunteers ! 


Their generals, and seers, 




Their gallantry, their genius, and their brawn ; 
With water, or with wine — 






The draught is but a sign — 


THE MEN OF 'EIGHTY-TWO. 


The purpose fills the cruisgin lan, lan, lan, 


Aib— An Orwitgm Lan. 


This purpose fills the cruisgin lan ! 


:. 


VII. 


To rend a cruel chain, 


That ere Old Ireland goes, 


To end a foreign reign 


And while Young Ireland glows, 


The swords of the Volunteers were drawn. 


The swords of our sires be girt on, 


And instant from their sway, 


And loyally renew 


Oppression fled away ; 


The work of 'Eighty-two — 


80 we'll drink them in a cruisgin lan, lan, lan, 


Oh ! gentlemen — a cruisgin lan, lan, lan, 


We'll drink them in a cruisgin lan! 


Our freedom ! in a cruisgin lan I 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



NATIVE SWORDS. 
(a volunteer song. — 1st July, 1792.) 
Am — Boyne Water. 

We've bent too long to braggart wrong, 

While force our prayers derided ; 
We've fought too long, ourselves among, 

By knaves and priests divided ; 
United now, no more we'll bow, 

Foul faction, we discard it; 
And now, thank God ! our native sod 

Has Native Swords to guard it. 

ii. 
Like rivers which, o'er valleys rich, 

Bring ruin in their water, 
On native land, a native hand 

Flung foreign fraud and slaughter. 
From Dermod's crime to Tudor's time 

Our clans were our perdition ; 
Religion's name, since then, became 

Our pretext for division. 
in. 
But, worse than all, with Lim'rick's fall 

Our valor seemed to perish ; 
Or o'er the main, in France and Spain, 

For bootless vengeance flourish. 
The peasant, here, grew pale for fear 

He'd suffer for our glory, 
While France sang joy for Fontenoy, 

And Europe hymned our story. 

IV. 

But now, no clan, nor factious plan, 

The East and West can sunder — 
Why Ulster e'er should Munster fear, 

Can only wake our wonder. 
Religion's crost, when union's lost, 

And "royal gifts" retard it; 
But now, thank God ! our nat : ,ve sod 

Has Native Swords to guard it. 



TONE'S GRAVE. 



In Bodenstown Churchyard there is a green grave, 
And wildly along it the winter winds rave; 
Small shelter, 1 ween, are the ruined walls there, 
When the storm sweeps down on the plains of 
Kildare, 



Once I lay on that sod — it lies over Wolfe Tone — 
And I thought how he perished in prison alone, 
His friends unavenged, and his country unfreed- 
" Oh, bitter," I said, " is the patriot's meec 



For in him the heart of a woman combined 
With a heroic life, and a governing mind — 
A martyr for Ireland — his grave has no stone — 
His name seldom named, and his virtues un- 



I was woke from my dream by the voices and 

tread 
Of a band, who came into the home of the dead ; 
They carried no corpse, and they carried no 

stone, 
And they stopped when they came to the grave 

of Wolfe Tone. 



There were students and peasants, the wise and 

the brave, 
And an old man who knew him from cradle to 

grave. 
And children who thought me hard-hearted; 

for they, 
On that sanctified sod were forbidden to pla^. 



But the old man, who saw I was mourning there, 

said : 
" We come, sir, to weep where young Wolfe 

Tone is laid ; 
And we're going to raise him a monument, too— 
A plain one, yet fit for the simple and true." 



My heart overflowed, and I clasped his old hand, 
And I blessed him, and blessed every one of his 

band ; 
" Sweet ! sweet ! 'tis to find that such faith can 

remain 
To the cause, and the man so long vanquished 

and slain." 



In Bodenstown Churchyard there is a greeh 

grave, 
And freely around it let winter winds rave — 
Far better they suit liim — the ruin and gloom, — 
Till Ireland, a Nation, can build him a Tomb. 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 






"Hationautt is no longer »n nnmeaning or despised name 
among as. It is welcomed by the higher ranks, it is the inspiration 
or the bold, and Hie hope of the ocnte. It is the summary name 
for many tilings. It seeks a Literati.™ made by Irishmen, and 
colored b7 our scenery, manners, and a.iraeter. It desires to 
see Art applied to express Irish thoughts ai.i belief It would 
make our Mus c sound in every parish at twilight, our Pictures 
sprinkle the walls of every house, and our Poetry and History sit 
at every hearth. 

'• It would thus create a race of men full of a more intensely 
Irish character and knowledge, and to that race it would give Ire- 
land. It would give them the seas of Ireland to sweep with their 
nets and launch on with their navy; the harbors of Ireland, to 
receive a greater commerce than any island in the world ; the 
soil of Ireland to live on, by more millions than starve here now; 
the fame of Ireland to enhance by their genius and valor; the 
Independence of Ireland to guard by laws and arms."— Davis's 
Essays. 



NATIONALITY. 



A nation's voice, a nation's voice — 

It is a solemn thing ! 
It bids the bondage-sick rejoice — 

'Tis stronger than a king. 
'Tis like the light of many stars, 

The sound of many waves ; 
Which brightly look through prison-bars; 

And sweetly sound in caves. 
Yet is it noblest, godliest known, 
When righteous triumph swells its tone. 



A nation's flag, a nation's flag — 

If wickedly unrolled, 
May foes in adverse battle drag 

Its every fold from fold. 
But, in the cause of Liberty, 

Guard it 'gainst Earth and Hell; 
Guard it till Death or Victory — 

Look you, you guard it well ! 
No saint or king has tomb so proud, 
As he whose flag becomes his shroud. 



A nation's right, a nation's right- 
God gave it ; and gave, too, 

A nation's sword, a nation's might, 
Danger to guard it through. 

'Tis freedom from a foreign yoke, 
'Tis just and equal laws, 

Which deal unto the humblest folk, 
As in a noble's cause. 

On nations fixed in right and truth, 

God would bestow eternal youth. 



May Ireland's voice be ever heard 

Amid the world's applause ! 
And never be her flag-staff stirred, 

But in an honest cause ! 
May Freedom be her very breath, 

Be Justice ever dear; 
And never an ennobled death 

May son of Ireland fear ! 
So the Lord God will ever smile, 
With guardian grace, upon our isle. 



SELF-RELIANCE. 



Though savage force and subtle schemes, 

And alien rule, through ages lasting, 
Have swept your land like lava streams, 

Its wealth, and name, and nature blasting, 
Rot not, therefore, in dull despair, 

Nor moan at destiny in far lands : 
Face not your foe with bosom bare, 

Nor hide your chains in pleasure's garlands ! 
The wise man arms to combat wrong, 

The brave man clears a den of lions, 
The true man spurns the Helot's song ; 

The freeman's friend is Self-Reliance I 



THE P>EMS OF THOMAS DAVIS 



Though France, that gave your exiles bread, 

Yom priests a home, your hopes a station, 
Or that young land, where first was spread 

The starry flag of Liberation, — 
Should heeil your wrongs some future day, 

And send you voice or sword to plead 'em, 
With helpful love their help repay, 

Bat trust not even to them for Freedom. 
A Nation freed by foreign aid 

Is but a corpse by wanton science 
Convul-ed like life, then flung to fade — 

Tte life itself is Self-Reliance ! 



Oh ! see your quailing tyrant run 

To courteous lies, and Roman agents; 
His terror, lest Dungannon's sun 

Should rise again with riper radiance. 
Oh ! hark the Freeman's welcome cheer, 

And hark your brother sufferers sobbing ; 
Oh ! mark the universe grow clear, 

And mark your spirit's royal throbbing,— 
'Tis Freedom's God that sends such signs, 

As pledges of bis blest alliance ; 
He gives bright hopes to brave designs, 

And lends his bolts to Self-Reliance ! 



Then, flung alone, or hand-in-hand, 

In mirthful hour, or spirit solemn; 
In lowly toil, or high command, 

In social hall, or charging column ; 
In tempting wealth, and trying woe, 

In struggling with a mob's dictation; 
In bearing back a foreign foe, 

In training up a troubled nation : 
Still hold to Truth, abound in Love, 

Refusing every base compliance — 
Your Praise within, your Prize above, 

And live and die in Self-Relianoe ! 



SWEET AND SAD. 



A PRISON SERMON. 



Tis sweet to climb the mountain's crest, 
And run, like deer-hound, down its breast ; 
Tis sweet to snuff the taintless air, 
And sweep the sea with haughty stare : 



And, s;id it is, when iron bars 
Keep watch between yon and the stars ; 
And sad to rind your footstep stayed 
By prison-wall and palisade : 
But 'twere better be 
A prisoner forever, 
With no destiny 

To do, or to endeavor; 
Better life to spend 

A martyr or confessor, 
Than in silence bend 
To alien and oppressor. 



'Tis sweet to rule an ample realm, 
Through weal and woe to hold the helm ; 
And sweet to strew, with plenteous hand, 
Strength, health, and beauty round your land 
And sad it is to be unprized, 
While dotards rule unrecognized; 
And sad your little ones to see 
Writhe in the gripe of poverty : 
But 'twere better pine 

In rags and gnawing hunger, 
While around you whine 

Your elder and your younger ; 
Better lie in pain, 

And rise in pain to-morrow, 
Than o'er millions reign, 
While those millions sorrow. 



'Tis sweet to own a quiet hearth, 
Begirt by constancy and mirth ; 
'Twere sweet to feel your dying clasp 
Returned by friendship's steady grasp : 
And sad it is, to spend your life, 
Like sea-bird in the ceaseless strife — 
Your lullaby the ocean's roar, 
Your resting-place a foreign shore : 
But 'twere better live, 

Like ship caught by Lofoden 
Than your spirit give 

To be by chains corroden : 
Best of all to yield 

Your latest breath, when lying 
On a victor field, 

With the green flag flying ! 



Hnman joy and human sorrow, 

Light or shade from conscience borrow; 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



The tyrant's crown is lined with flame, 
Life never paid the coward's shame : 
The miser's lock is never sure, 
The traitor's home is never pure ; 
While seraphs guard, and cherubs tend 
The good man's life and brave man's end : 
But their fondest care 
j, Is the patriot's prison, 
Hymning through its air — 

" Freedom hath arisen, 
Oft from statesmen's strife, 
Oft from battle's flashes, 
Oft from hero's life, 

Often est from his ashes !" 



THE BURIAL.' 



Wet rings the knell of the funeral bell from a 

hundred village shrines? 
Through broad Fingall, where hasten all those 

long and ordered lines ? 
With tear and sigh they're passing by, — the 

matron and the maid ; 
Has a hero died — is a nation's pride in that cold 

coffin laid ? 
With frown and curse, behind the hearse, dark 

men go tramping on — 
Has a tyrant died, that they cannot hide their 

wrath till the rites are done ! 

THE CHANT. 

" Ululu ! ululu ! high on the wind, 

There's a home for the slave where no fetters can 

bind. 
Woe, woe to his slayers" — comes wildly along, 
With the trampling of feet and the funeral song. 

And now more clear 
It swells on the ear ; 
Breathe low, and listen, 'tis solemn to hear. 

'• Ululu ! ululu! wail for the dead. 

Green grow the grass of Fingall on his head ; 

And spring-flowers blossom, ere elsewhere ap- 
pearing, 

And shamrocks grow thick on the Martyr for 
Erin. 



Written cm the funeral of the Eev. P. J. Tyrrell, P. P. of 
ik ; one of those indicted with O'Connell in the government 
aecnti ms of 1843.— Ed. 



Ululu! ululu! soft fall the dew 

On the feet and the - head of the martyred 



For awhile they tread 

In silence dread — 

Then muttering and moaning go the crowd, 

Surging and swaying like mountain cloud, 

And again the wail comes fearfully loud. 

THE CHANT. 

" Ululu ! ululu ! kind was his heart ! 

Walk slower, walk slower, too soon we shall 

part. 
The faithful and pious, the Priest of the Lord, 
His pilgrimage over, he has his reward. 
By the bed of the sick, lowly kneeling, 
To God with the raised cross appealing — 
He seems still to kneel, and he seems still to 



pray, 
And the sins of the 



dying seem passing away. 
cell, and the cabin so 



" In the prisoner's 

dreary, 
Our constant consoler, he never grew weary; 
But he's gone to his rest, 
And he's now with the blest, 
Where tyrant and traitor no longer molest — 
Ululu! ululu! wail for the dead ! 
Ululu ! ululu ! here is his bed." 

Short was the ritual, simple the prayer, 
Deep was the silence and every head bare ; 
The Priest alone standing, they knelt all around, 
Myriads on myriads, like rocks on the ground. 
Kneeling and motionless — " Dust unto dust." 
"He died as becoineth the faithful and just — 
Placing in God his reliance and trust;" 
Kneeling and motionless — "Ashes to ashes" — 
Hollow the clay on the coffin-lid dashes ; 
Kneeling and motionless, wildly they pray, 
But they pray in their souls, for no gesture have 

they — 
Stern and standing — oh ! look on them now, 
Like trees to one tempest the multitude bow; 
Like the swell of the ocean is rising their vow : 

the vow. 

" We have bent and borne, though we saw him 
torn from his home by the tyrant's crew — 

And we bent and bore, when he came once more, 
though suffering had pierced him through : 



-,:;o 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



" And now he is laid beyond oar aid, because to 

Ireland true — 
A martyred man — the tyrant's ban, the pious 

patriot slow. 

" And shall we bear and bend forever, 
And shall no time our bondage sever, 
And shall we kneel, but battle never, 
For our own soil ? 

14 And shall our tyrants safely reign 
On thrones built up of slaves and slain, 
And naught to us and ours remain, 

But chains and toil ? 

" No ! round this grave our oath we plight, 
To watch, and labor, and unite, 
l^ill banded be the nation's might — 
It's spirit steeled. 

" And then collecting all our force, 
We'll cross oppression in its course, 
And die — or all our rights enforce, 
On battle-field." 

Like an ebbing sea that will come again, 
Slowly retired that host of men ; 
Mcthinks they'll keep some other day 
The oath they swore on the martyr's clay. 



WE MUST NOT FAIL. 



We must not fail, we must not fail, 
However fraud or force assail ; 
By honor, pride, and policy, 
By Heaven itself! — we must be free. 



Time had already thinned our chain, 
Time would have dulled our sense of pain; 
By service long, and suppliance vile, 
We might have won our owner's smile. 



We spurned the thought, our prison burst, 
And dared the despot to the worst ; 
Renewed the strife of centuries, 
And flung our banner to the breeze. 



We called the ends of earth to view 

The gallant deeds we swore to do ; 

They knew us wronged, they knew us brave, 

And, all we asked, they freely gave. 



We took the starving peasant's mite 
To aid in winning back his right, 
We took the priceless trust of youth ; 
Their freedom must redeem our truth. 



We promised loud, and boasted high, 
" To break our country's chains, or die;" 
And, should we quail, that country's name 
Will be the synonym of shame. 



Earth is not deep enough to hide 
The coward slave who shrinks aside ; 
Hell is not hot enough to scathe 
The ruffian wretch who breaks his faith. 



But — calm, my soul ! — we promised true, 
Her destined work our land shall do ; 
Thought, courage, patience will prevail 1 
We shall not fail — we shall not fail ! 



O'CONNELL'S STATUE. 

(links to hooan.) 

Chisel the likeness of The Chief, 

Not in gayety, nor grief ; 

Change not by your art to stone, 

Ireland's laugh, or Ireland's moan. 

Dark her tale, and none can tell 

Its fearful chronicle so well. 

Her frame is bent — her wounds are deep-- 

Who, like him, her woes can weep? 

He can be gentle as a bride, 

While none can rule with kinglier pride. 

Calm to hear, and wise to prove, 

Yet gay as lark in soaring love. 

Well it were posterity 

Should have some image of his glee; 

That easy humor, blossoming 

Like the thousand flowers of spring ! 




/ 



Vy////'< 



7//f^//7/ 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



531 



Glorious the marble which could show 
His bursting sympathy for woe, 
Could catch the pathos, flowing wild, 
Like mother's milk to craving child. 

And oh ! how princely were the art 
Could moul 1 his mien, or tell his heart, 
When sitting sole on Tara's hill, 
While hung a million on bis will! 
Yet, not in gayety, nor grief, 
Chisel the image of our Chief; 
Nor even in that haughty hour 
When a nation owned his power. 

But would you by your art unroll 

His own, and Ireland's secret soul, 

And give, to other times to scan 

The greatest greatness of the man ? 

Fierce defiance let him be 

Hurling at our enemy.— 

From a base as fair and sure 

As our love is true and pure, 

Let his statue rise as tall 

And firm as a castle wall ; 

On his broad brow let there be 

A type of Ireland's history; 

Pious, generous, deep, and warm, 

Strong and changeful as a storm ; 

Let whole centuries of wrong 

Upon his recollection throng — 

Strougbovv's force, and Henry's wile, 

Tutor's wrath, and Stuart's guile, 

And iron Strafford's tiger jaws, 

And brutal Brunswick's penal laws ; 

Not forgetting Saxon faith, 

Not forgetting Norman scaith, 

Not forgetting William's word, 

Not forgetting Cromwell's sword. 

Let the Union's fetter vile — 

The shame and ruin of our isle — 

Let the blood of 'Ninety-eight 

And our present blighting fate — 

Let the poor mechanic's lot, 

And the peasant's ruined cot, 

Plundered wealth and glory flown, 

Ancient honors overthrown — 

Let trampled altar, rifled urn, 

Knit his look to purpose stern. 

Mould all this into one thought, 

Like wizard cloud with thunder fraught ; 

Still let our glories through it gleam, 

Like fair flowers through a flooded stream, 

Or like a flashing wave at night, 

Bright, — 'mid the solemn darkness bright. 



Let the memory of old days 

Shine through the statesman's anxious face — 

Dathi's power, and Brian's fame, 

And headlong Sarsfield's sword of flame, 

And the spirit of Red Hugh, 

And the pride of 'Eighty-two. 

And the victories he won, 

And the hope that leads him on 1 

Let whole armies seem to fly 
From his threatening hand and eye; 
Be the strength of all the land 
Like a falchion in his hand, 
And be his gesture sternly grand. 
A braggart tyrant swore to smite 
A people struggling for their right — 
O'Connell dared him to the field, 
Content to die, but never yield. 
Fancy such a soul as his, 
In a moment such as this, 
Like cataract, or foaming tide, 
Or army charging in its pride. 
Thus he spoke, and thus he stood, 
Proffering in our cause his blood. 
Thus his country loves him best — 
To image this is your behest. 
Chisel thus, and thus alone, 
If to man you'd change the stone. 



THE GREEN ABOVE THE RED.' 

Am.— Irish Molly Ot 



Full often when our fathers saw the Red above 

the Green, 
They rose in rude but fierce array, with sabre, 

pike, and scian, 
And over many a noble town, and many a field 

of dead, 
They proudly set the Irish Green above the 

English Red. 



But in the end, throughout the land, the sham 

ful sight was seen — 
The English Red in triumph high above the 

Irish green ; 



1 This and the throe following pieces are properly street ballads 
The reader must not expect depth or finish In verses of this de- 
scription, written for a temporary purpose. — Ed. 



632 THE POEMS OF 


IHOUAS DAVIS. 


But well they died in breach and field, who, as 




their spirits fled, 


VIII. 


Still saw the Green maintain its place above the 


We'll trust ourselves, for God is good, and 


English Red. 


blesses those who lean 




On their brave hearts, and not upon an earthly 


HI. 

And they who saw, in after times, the Red above 


king or queen ; 
And, freely as we lift our "hands, we vow our 


the Green, 


blood to shed 


Were withered as the grass that dies beneath a 


Once and forever more to raise the Green above 


forest screen ; 


the Red ! 


Yet often by this healthy hope their sinking 




hearts were fed, 




That, in some day to come, the Green should 




flutter o'er the Red. 






THE VOW OF TIPPERARY. 


Sure 'twas for this Lord Edward died, and Wolfe 


A IB — Tipperary. 


Tone sunk serene — 




Because they could not bear to leave the Red 

above the Green ; 
And 'twas for this that Owen fought, and Sars- 

field nobly bled — 
Because their eyes were hot to see the Green 




From Carrick streets to Shannon shore, 
From Slievenamon to Ballindeary, 

From Longford Pass to Gaillte Mor, 
Come hear The Vow of Tipperary. 


above the Red. 


ii. 


v. 


Too long we fought for Britain's cause, 


So, when the strife began again, our darling 


And of our blood were never chary ; 


Irish Green 


She paid us back with tyrant laws, 


Was down upon the earth, while high the Eng- 


And thinned The Homes of Tipperary. 


lish Red was seen ; 




Yet still we hold our fearless course, for some- 


m. 


thing in us said, 


Too long, with rash and single arm, 


" Before the strife is o'er you'll see the Green 


The peasant strove to guard his eyrie. 


above the Red." 


Till Irish blood bedewed each farm, 


VI. 


And Ireland wept for Tipperary. 


And 'tis for this we think and toil, and know- 


IV. 


ledge strive to glean, 


But never more we'll lift a hand — 


That we may pull the English Red below the 


We swear by God and Virgin Mary ! 


Irish Green, 


Except in war for Native Land, 


And leave our sons sweet Liberty, and smiling 


And that's The Vow of Tipperary I 


plenty spread 




Above the land once dark with blood — the 




Green above the Red ! 




VII. 


A PLEA FOR THE BOG-TROTTERS. 


The jealous English tyrant now has banned the 




Irish Green, 


!- 


And forced us to conceal it like a something 


" Base Bog-trotters," says the " Times," 


foul and mean ; 


" Brown with mud, and black wkh crimet, 


But yet, by Heavens ! he'll sooner raise his vic- 


Turf and lumpers dig betimes 


tims from the dead 


(We grant you need 'em), 


Than force our hearts to leave the Green, and 


But never lift your heads sublime, 


cotton to the Red ' 


Nor talk of Freedom." 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



53a 



Yet, Bog-trotters, sirs, be sure, 
Are strong to do, and to endure, 
Men- whose blows are hard to cure — 

Brigands ! what's in ye, 
That the fierce man of the moor 

Can't stand again ye ? 



The common drains in Mushra moss 
Are wider than a castle fosse, 
Connaught swamps are hard to cross, 

And histories boast 
That Allen's Bog has caused the loss 

Of many a host. 



Oh ! were you in an Irish bog, 

Full of pikes, and scarce of prog, 

You'd wish your " Times"-ship was incog. 

Or far away, 
Though Saxons, thick as London fog, 

Around you lay. 



A SECOND PLEA FOR THE BOG- 
TROTTERS. 



The " Mail" says, that Hanover's King 
Twenty Thousand men will bring. 
And make the " base bog-trotters" sing 

A pillileu; 
And that O'Connell high shall swing, 

And others too. 



There is a tale of Athens told, 
Worth at least its weight in gold 
To fellows of King Ernest's mould 

(The royal rover), 
Who think men may be bought and sold, 

Or riden over. 



Darius (an imperial wretch, 

A Persian Ernest, or Jack Ketch) 

Bid his knaves from Athens fetch 

" Earth and water," 
Or else the heralds' necks he'd stretch, 

And Athens slaughter. 



The Athenians threw them in a well, 
And left them there to help themsel', 
And when his armies came, pell-mell, 

They tore his banners, 
And sent his slaves in shoals to hell, 

To mend their manners. 



Let those who bring and those who send 
Hanoverians, comprehend 
Persian-like may be their end, 

And the " bog-trotter" 
May drown their knaves, their banners rend 

Their armies slaughter. 



A SCENE IN THE SOUTH. 



I was walking along in a pleasant place, 

In the county Tipperary ; 
The scene smiled as happy as the holy face 
Of the Blessed Virgin Mary ; 
And the trees were proud, and the sward wa» 

green, 
And the birds sang loud in the leafy scene. 



Yet somehow I felt strange, and soon I felt 
sad, 
And then I felt very lonely ; ' 
I pondered in vain why I was not glad, 
In a place meant for pleasure only : 
For I thought that grief had never been there, 
And that sin would as lief to heaven repair. 



And a train of spirits seemed passing me by 

The air grew as heavy as lead; 
I looked for a cabin, yet none could I spy 
In the pastures about me spread ; 
Yet each field seemed made for a peasant's cot, 
And I felt dismayed when I saw them not. 



As I stayed on the field, I saw — Oh, my God 
The marks where a cabin had been : 

Through the midst of the fields, some feet to 
the sod 
Were coarser and far less green, 



534 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



And three or four trees in the centre stood, 
But they seemed to freeze in their solitude. 



Surely there was the road that led to the 
cot, 
For it ends just beneath the trees, 
And the trees like mourners are watching the 
spot, 
And cronauning with the breeze ; 
And their stems are bare with children's play, 
But the children — where, oh ! where are they ? 



An old man unnoticed had come to my side, 

His hand in my arm linking — 
A reverend man, without histe or pride — 
And he said: "I know what you're 
thinking; 
A cabin stood once underneath the trees, 
Full of kindly ones — but alas ! for these ! 



u A loving old couple, and tho' somewhat 
poor, 
Their children had leisure to play; 
And the piper, and stranger, and beggar were 
sure 
To bless them in going away ; 
But the typhus came, and the agent too — 
Ah I need I name the worst of the two ? 



" Their cot was unroofed, yet they strove to 
hide 
In its walls till the fever was passed; 
Their crime was found out, and the cold ditch 
side 
Was their hospital at last : 
Slowly they went to poorhousc and grave, 
But the Lord tkey bent to, their souls will save. 



" And thro' many a field you passed, and will 
pass, 
In this lordling's ' cleared' demesne, 



2 Just before the i 



e actual landscape which I s 
urrecttnn which expelled tlu 



Lake consulting I'nr lil.crry : mid while they were 
* genius of Switzerland appeired in iln-ni, and she 
weeping. •' Why weep you, mother 1" said Tell; 



Where households as happy were one — Hut, 
alas! 
They too are scattered or slain." 
Then he pressed my hand, and he went away ; 
I could not stand, so I knelt to pray. 



"God of justice !" I sighed, " send your spirit 
down 
On these lords so cruel and proud, 
And soften their hearts and relax their frown, 
Or else," I cried aloud — 
" Vouchsafe thy strength to the peasant's hand 
To drive them at length from off the land !"' 



WILLIAM TELL AND THE GENIUS OF 
SWITZERLAND' 



Tell. — You have no fears, 
My native land ! 
Then dry your tears, 
And draw your brand. 
A million made a vow 
To free yon. — Wherefore, now, 
Tears again, my native land ? 



Genius. — I weep not from doubt, 
I weep not for dread ; 
There's strength in your shout, 
And trust in your tread. 
I weep, for I look for the coining dead, 

Who for Liberty's cause shall die; 
And I hear a wail from the widow's bed 
Come mixed with our triumph — cry. 
Though dire my woes, yet how can I 
Be calm when I know such suffering's nigh I 



Tell. — Death conies to all, 
My native land ! 
Weep not their fall— 
A glorious band ! 



i her brow, and she gave him a spear and bade him conquer.- 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS 



Famine and slavery 
Slaughter more cruelly 

Than Battle's blood-covered hand ! 



Gekius. — Yes, and all glory 

Shall honor their grave, 
With shrine, song, and story, 
Denied to the save. 
Thus pride shall so mingle with sorrow, 

Their wives half their weeping will stay; 
Arid their sons long to tempt on the morrow 

The death they encounter to-day. 
Then away, sons, to battle away ! 
Draw the sword, lift the flag, and away ! 



THE EXILE. 

(PARAPHRASED FROM THE FRENCH.] 



I've passed through the nations unheeded, un- 
known ; 

Though all looked upon me, none called me 
their own. 

I shared not their laughter — they oared not my 
moan — 
For, ah ! the poor exile is always alone. 



At eve, when the smoke from some cottage 

uprose, 
How happy I've thought, at the weary day's 

close, 
With his dearest around, must the peasant repose ; 
But, ah ! the poor exile is always alone. 

in. 
Where hasten those clouds ? to the land or the 

sea — 
Driven on by the tempest, poor exiles, like me? 
What matter to either where either shall flee? 
For, ah ! the poor exile is always alone. 



Those trees they are beauteous — those flowers 

they are fair; 
But no trees and no flowers of my country are 

there 
They speak not unto me — they heed not my care ; 
For ah! the poor exile is always alone. 



That brook murmurs softly its way through the 

plain ; 
But the brooks of my childhood had not the 

same strain. 
It reminds me of nothing— it murmurs in vain ; 
For, ah ! the poor exile is always alone. 



Sweet are those songs, but their sweetness or 

sorrow 
No charm from the songs of my infancv borrow. 
I hear them to-d;iy and forget them to-morrow ; 
For, ah ! the poor exile is always alone. 



They've asked me, " Why weep yon ?" I've told 

them my woe — 
They listed my words, as the rocks feel the snow. 
No sympathy bound us; how could their tears 

flow ? 
For, sure the poor exile is always alone. 



When soft on their chosen the young maidens 

smile, 
Like the dawn of the morn on Erin's dear isle, 
With no love-smile to cheer me, I look on the 

while; 
For, ah ! the poor exile is always alone. 



Like boughs round the tree are those babes 

round their mother, 
And these friends like its roots, clasp and grow 

to each oiher; 
But, none call me child, and none call me 

brother ; 
For, ah ! the poor exile is ever alone. 



Wives never clasp, and friends never smile, 
Mothers ne'er fondle, nor maidens beguile ; 
And happiness dwells not, except in our isle 
And so the poor exile is always alone. 



Poor exile, cease grieving, for all are like you — 
Weeping the banished, the lovely, and true. 
Our country is heaven —'twill wek-ome you, too; 
And cherish the exile, no longer alone ! 



536 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



MY HOME. 



I have dreamt of a home — a happy home — 
The ficklest from it would not care to roam : 
'Twas a cottage home on native ground, 
Where all things glorious clustered round — 
For highland glen and lowland plain 
Met within that small demesne. 

In sight is a tarn, with cliffs of fear, 
"Where the eagle defies the mountaineer, 
And the cataract leaps in mad career, 
And through oak and holly roam the deer. 
On its brink is a ruined castle, stern, — 
The mountains are crowned with rath and cam, 
Robed with heather, and bossed with stone, 
And belted with a pine-wood lone. 

Thro' that mighty gap in the mountain chain, 

Oft, like rivers after rain, 

Poured our clans on the conquered plain. 

And, there upon their harassed rear, 

Oft pressed the Norman's bloody spear ; 

Men call it " the pass of the leaping deer." 

Wild is the region, yet gentle the spot — 
As you look on the roses, the rocks are forgot ; 
For garden gay, and primrose lawn 
Peep through the rocks, as thro' night comes 
dawn. 

And see, by that burn the children play ; 

In that valley the village maidens stray, 

Listing the thrush and the robin's lay, 

Listing the burn sigh back to the breeze, 

And hoping — guess whom ? 'mong the thorn-trees. 

Not yet, dear girls — on the uplands green 

£ hepherds and flocks may still be seen. 

Freemen's toils, with fruit and grain, 

The valley fill, and clothe the plain. 

There's the health which labor yields — 

Labor tilling its own fields. 

Freed at length from stranger lord — 

From his frown, or his reward — 

Each the owner of his land, 

Plenty springs beneath his hand. 

Meet these men on land or sea — 
Meet them in council, war, or glee ; 
Voice, glance, and mien, bespeak them free. 



Welcome greets you at their hearth ; 

Reverent they to age and worth ; 

Yet prone to jest, and full of mirth. 

Fond of song, and dance, and crowd ' — 

Of harp, and pipe, and laughter loud ; 

Their lay of love is low and bland, 

Their wail for death is wild and grand; 

Awful and lovely their song of flame, 

When they clash the chords in their country a 



They seek no courts, and own no sway, 

Save the counsels of their elders gray ; 

For holy love, and homely faith, 

Rule their hearts in life and death. 

Yet their rifles would flash, and their sabres smite, 

And their pike-staffs redden in the fight, 

And young and old be swept away, 

Ere the stranger in their land should sway. 

But the setting sun, ere he sink in the sea, 

Flushes and flashes o'er crag and tree, 

Kisses the clouds with crimson sheen, 

And sheets with gold the ocean's green. 

Where the stately frigate lies in the bay, 

The friendly fleet of the Frenchman lay. 

Yonder creek, and yonder shore 

Echoed then the battle's roar ; 

Where, on slope after slope, the west sun shines, 

After the fight lay our conquering lines. 

The triumph, though great, had cost us dear ; 

And the wounded and dead were lying near — 

When the setting sun on our bivouac proud, 

Sudden burst through a riven cloud, 

An answering shout broke from our men — 

Wounds and toils were forgotten then, 

And dying men were heard to pray 

The light would last till they passed away — ■ 

They wished to die on our triumph day. 

We honored the omen, and thought on times 

gone, 
And from chief to chief the word was passed on. 
The " harp on the green" our land-flag should be, 
And the sun through clouds bursting, our flag 

at sea, 
The green-borne harp o'er yon battery gleams, 
From the frigate's topgallant the "sunburst" 



sage 



In that far-off isle a s 

Built a lowly hermitage, 

Where ages gone made pilgrimage. 



1 Correctly emit, I 



i for the violin.— Adthoe'b Note. 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



Over his grave, with what weird delight, 
The gray trees swim in the flooding light ; 
How a halo clasps their solemn head, 
Like heaven's breath on the rising dead 

Longing and languid as prisoned bird, 
With a powerless dream my heart is stirred, 
And I pant to pierce beyond the tomb, 
And see the light, or share the gloom. 
But vainly for such power we pray, 
God wills — enough — let man obey. 

Two thousand years, 'mid sun and storm, 

That tall tower has lifted its mystic form. 

The yew-tree shadowing the aisle, 

Twixt airy arch and mouldering pile, 

And nigh the hamlet that chapel fair 

Show religion has dwelt, and is dwelling there. 

While the Druid's crom-leac up the vale 
Tolls how rites may change, and creeds may fail, 
Creeds may perish, and rites may fall, 
But that hamlet worships the God of all. 

In the land of the pious, free, and brave, 
Was the happy home that sweet dream gave. 
But the mirth, and beauty, and love that dwell 
Within that home — I may not tell. 



FANNY POWER. 



The lady's son rode by the mill : 
The trees were murmuring on the hill, 
But in the valley they were still, 

And seemed with heat to cower : 
They said that he should be a priest, 
For so had vowed his sire deceased ; 
They should have told him too, at least, 

To fly from Fanny Power. 
ii. 
The lonely student fell his breast 
Was like an empty linnet's nest, 
Divinely moulded to be blest, 

Yet pining hour by hour : 
For, see, amid the orchard trees, 
Her green gown kirtled to her knees, 
Adown the brake, like whispering breeze, 

Went lightsome Fanny Power. 



Her eyes cast down a mellow light 
Upon her neck of glancing white, 
Like starshine on a snowy night, 
Or moonshine on a tower 



She sang — he thought her songs were hymua, 
An angel's grace was in her limbs ; 
The swan that pn Lough Erne swims 
Is rude to Fanny Power. 



Returned, he thought the convent dull, 

At best a heavy heartless lull — 

No hopes to cheer, no flowers to cull, 

No sunshine and no shower. 
The Abbot sent him to his cell, 
And spoke of penance and of hell ; 
But nothing in his heart to quell 

The love of Fanny Power. 



He dreamed of her the livelong day, 
At evening, when he tried to pray, 
Instead of other Saints, he'd say, 

holy — Fanny Power ! 
How happier seemed an exile's lot 
Than living there, unlov'd, forgot; 
And, oh, best joy ! to share his cot 

His own dear Fanny Power. 



'Tis vain to strive with Passion's might- 
He left the convent walls one night, 
And she was won to join his flight 

Before he wooed an hour ; 
So, flying to a freer land, 
He broke his vow at Love's command, 
And placed a ring upon the hand 

Of happy Fanny Power. 



MARIE NANGLE ; OR, THE SEVEN SIS- 
TERS OF NAVAN. 



FRAGMENT 



Oh ! there were sisters, sisters seven, 
As bright as any stars in heaven ; 
Save one, they all weie snowy white, 
And she like oriental night : 
Yet she was like unto the rest, 
Had all their softness in her breast, 
Their lights and shadows in her face, 
And in her figure all their grace ; 
The brightest she of all the seven, 
Yet all were bright, as stars in heaven. 



THE POEMS OF THOMAS DAVIS. 



They had true lovers, every one, 

Except the fairest— she had none; 

Or rather say that she returned 

Their love to none who for her burned ; 

For Marie's timid, Marie's mild, 

And on her spirit undefiled 

St. Brigid's' nuns their thoughts have bent; 

She flies her sister's merriment. 

They say they'll marry, every one, 

But Marie says she'll be a Nun. 



" Oh ! wait a while," her father said, 
" Sweet Marie, wait till I am dead." 
The Nuns, for this, more firmly sought 
To wean her from each earthly thought. 
Oh ! you were made for God, not man, — 
'Twas thus their pious plea began ; 
For much these pale recluses feared, 
As her gay sisters' nuptials neared. 
" Oh ! wait awhile," the Baron said, 
" Sweet Marie wait till they are wed." 



A novice now, sweet Marie dwells 

Within dark Odder's sacred cells ; 

Yet on ber sisters' wedding day 

She joins the chivalrous array. 

The brides were sweeter than their flowers, 

The bridegrooms came from haughty towers, 

For Nangle's 2 daughters are beneath 

No lordly hand in lordly Meath. 

The novice heart of Marie swells, 

"Oh, dark," she sighs, " are Odder's cells 1" 



Yet vainly on that wedding day 
Her sisters and their gay grooms pray— 
She grieves to part with those so dear, 
But she is filled with pious fear ; 
While Tuite and Tyrrell urged in vain, 
Her tears fell down like Minister rain — 
Malone and Bellew, Taaffe and Dease 3 — 
" Oli, cease," she says, "in pity cease, 
Or I must leave your wedding gay, 
In Odaer's walls to fast and pray." 



The marriage rites are bravely done ; 
But what ails her, the novice Nun ? 
Oh ! never had she seen an eye 
Look into hers so tenderly. 
"Methinks that deep and mellow voice 
Would make the Abbess' self-rejoice ; 
He's sure the Saint I dreamt upon — 
Not Barnewell of Trimleston. 
In holy Land his spurs he won — 
What aileth me, a novice Nun 1" 



[It Is but 
are sore wa 
ever printed] 



MY GRAVE. 



Shall they bury me in the deep, 
Where wind-forgetting waters sleep f 
Shall they dig a grave for me, 
Under the green-wood tree } 
Or on the wild heath, 
Where the wilder breath 
Of the storm doth blow ? 
Oh, no ! oh, no ! 

Shall they bury me in the Palace Tombs, 
Or under the shade of Cathedral domes i 
Sweet 'twere to lie on Italy's shore ; 
Yet not there — nor in Greece, though I love it 

more. 
In the wolf or the vulture my grave shall I find ? 
Shall my ashes career on the world seeing wind? 
Shall they fling my corpse in the battle mound, 
Where coffinless thousands lie under the ground f 
Just as they fall they are buried so — 
Oh, no ! oh, no ! 

No ! on an Irish green hill-side, 

On an opening lawn — but not too wide; 

For I love the drip of the wetted trees — 

I love not the gales, but a gentle breeze, 

To freshen the turf — put no tombstone there, 

But green sods decked with daisies fair; 

Nor sods too deep, but so that the dew, 

The matted grass-roots may trickle through. 

Be my epitaph writ on my country's mind, 

" He served his country, and loved his 

KIND." 

Oh ! 'twere merry unto the grave to go, 
If one were sure to be buried so. 



: 



APPENDIX. 



i. 

Dttp sunk in that bed is the tword of Monroe, 
Since, twixi it and Donaoh, 1 lie met Owen Roe. 
Page 484. 
The Blackwater, in Ulster, is especially remarkable 
as the scene of tke two most remarkable victories ob- 
tained by the Irish over the English power for several 
centuries past. The particulars of these battles are 
so little known, that it is hoped the following ac- 
counts of them, taken from the best accessible sources, 
will be acceptable to the reader. The first is from 
the pen of Mr. Davis. 

The Battle of Benbtjhb. 
(5th June, 1646.) 

The battle of Benburb was fought upon the slopes 
of ground, now called the Thistle Hill, from being 
the property of the Thistles, a family of Scotch farm- 
ers, now represented by a fine old man of over eighty 
years. This ground is two and a quarter miles in a 
right line, or three by the road, from the Church of 
Benburb, and about sis miles below Caledon, in the 
county Tyrone ; in the angle between the Blackwater 
and the Oonagh, on the Benburb side of the latter, 
and close to Battleford Bridge. We are thus particu- 
lar in marking the exact place, because of the blun- 
ders of many writers on it. 

Major-General Robert Monro landed with several 
thousand Scots at Carrickfergus, in the middle of 
April. 1642, and on the 28th and 29th was joined by 
Lord Conway and Colonel Chichester, &c, with 1,S00 
foot, five troops of horse, and two of dragoons. Early 
in May, a junction was effected between Monro and 
Tichborne, and an army of 12,000 foot, and between 
1.000 and 2.000 horse, was made up. Yet, with this 
vast force, Monro achieved nothing but plunder, un- 
less the treacherous seizure of Lord Antrim be an ex- 
ception. Thus was the spring of 1642 wasted. Yet, 



1 So this line run3, as originally published, snd likewise in the 
;l of the present edition. But 1 have a strong suspicion that the 

•rOonmgh Vide description of the battle, especially the first 



so overwhelming was Monro's force, that the Irish 
Chiefs were thinking of giving up the war, win n, on 
the 13th of July, Owen Roe Mac-Art O'Neill land- 
ed at Doe Castle, county Donegal, and received the 
command. 

Owen Roe was born in Ulster, and at an early ago 
entered the Spanish — the imperial — service, influ 
enced, doubtless, by the same motives that led Mar- 
shal MacDonald into the French — that " the gates of 
promotion were closed at home." Owen, from trig 
great connexions, and greater abilities, rose rapidly, 
and held a high post in Catalonia. We have heard, 
through Dr. Gartland, the worthy head of the Sala- 
manca College, that Eugeuio Rufo is still remem- 
bered there. He held Arras in 1640 against the 
French, and (says Carte) " surrendered it at last upon 
honorable terms, yet his conduct in the defence was 
such as gave him great reputation, and procured him 
extraordinary respect even from the enemy." 

Owen was sent for at the first outbreak in 1641, 
but it was not till the latter eud of June, 1642, that 
he embarked for Dunkirk, with many of the officers 
and men of his own regiment, and supplies of arms. 
He sailed round the north of Scotland to Donegal, 
while another frigate brought similar succors to 
Wexford, under Henry O'Neill and Richard O'Far- 
rell. Owen was immediately conducted to Charle- 
mont, and invested with the command of Ulster. 

Immediately on Owen's landing, Lesley, Earl of 
Leven, and General of the Scotch troops, wrote to 
him, saying, " He was sorry a man of his reputation 
and experience abroad, should come to Ireland for 
the maintaining of so bad a cause ;" and advising his 
return ! O'Neill replied, " He had more reason to 
come to relieve the deplorable state of his country, 
than Lesley had to march at the head of an army 
into England against his king, at a time when they 
(the Scots) were already masters of all Scotland." No 
contrast could be greater or better put. Lord Levan 
immediately embarked for Scotland, telling Monro, 
whom he left in command, " that he would certainly 



paragraph. I would not. however, alter the text, without soma 
search after the original MS.; or, in default of that, a critical ex- 
amination of the topography of a district, iu the description of 
which so many errors have been committed. — Ed. 



be ousted, if O'Neill once got an army together." 
And so it turned out. Owen sustained himself for 
four years against Monro on one side and Ormond on 
the other — harassed by the demands of the other 
provincial generals, and distressed for want of pro- 
visions — defying Monro by any means to compel him 
to fight a battle until he was ready for it. But at 
length, having his troops in fine fighting order, he 
fought i\nd won the greatest battle fought in Ireland 
since the " Yellow Ford." But we must tell how this 
came about. 

Throughout 1G42, and in the summer of 1643, 
Monro made two attempts to beat up O'Neill's quar- 
ters ; and though the Irish General had not one-tenth 
of Monro's force, he compelled him to retire with loss 
into Antrim and Down. Assailed by Stewart's army 
on the Donegal side, Owen Roe retreated into Long- 
ford and Leitrim, hoping in the mgged districts to 
nurse up an army which would enable him to meet 
Monro in the field. 

By the autumn of 1643, after having suffered many 
trifling losses, he had got together a militia army of 
3.000 men, and the cessation having beer, concluded, 
he marched into Meath, joined Sir James Dillon, and 
reduced the entire district. In 1044, Monro's army 
amounting to 13,000 men, — O'Neill, after having for a 
short time occupied a great part of Ulster, again re- 
turned to North Leinster. Here he was joined by 
Lord Castlehaven with 6,000 men ; but except trifling 
skirmishes, no engagement took place, and Castle- 
haven returned, disgusted with a war, which he had 
not patience to value, nor profundity to practise. 
1645 passed over in similar skirmishes, in which the 
country suffered terribly from the plundering of 
Monro's army. 

The leaders under Owen Boe were. Sir Phelim 
O'Neill, and his brother Turlough ; Con, Corniac, 
Hugh, and Brian O'Neill ; and the following chief- 
tains with their clans : Bernard MacMahon, the son 
of Hugh, chief of Monaghau, and Baron of Dartry ; 
Colonel MacMahon, Colonel Patrick MacNeny (who 
was married to Helen, sister of Bernard MacMahon) ; 
Colonel Richard O'Ferrall of Longford, Roger Ma- 
guire of Fermanagh; Colonel Philip O'Reilly of 
Ballynacargy castle in the county of Cavan (who was 
married to Rose O'Neill, the sister of Owen Roe) ; 
and the valiant Maolmora O'Reilly (kinsman to Phil- 
ip), who, from his great strength and determined 
bravery, was called Miles the Slasher. The O'Reillys 
brought 200 chosen men of their own name, and of 
the AlaeBradys, MacCabes, MacGowans, Fitzpatricks, 
mid Fitzsimons, from Cavan. Some fighting men 
were also brought by MacGauran of Templeport, and 
iiaeTernan of Croghan ; some Connaught forces 
came with the O'Rorkes, MacDermotts, O'Connors, 
and O'Kelleys ; there came also some of the O'Don- 
neils and O'Doghertys of Donegal ; Manus O'Cane of 
Derry ; Sir Constantine Magennis, county of Down ; 
the O'Hanlons of Armagh, regal standard-bearers of 
Ulster ; and the O'Hagans of Tyrone. 

Lords Blaney, Conway, and Montgomery com- 
•nanded under Monro. 

In the spring of 1646, Owen Roe met the Nuncio 



at Kilkenny, and received from the council an am 
pier provision than heretofore ; and by May he had 
completed his force under it. to 5,000 foot and 000 
horse. This army consisted partly of veterans trained 
by the four preceding campaigns, and partly of new 
levies, whom he rapidly brought into discipline by 
his organizing genius and his stern punishments. 

With this force he marched into the county of Ar 
magh, and Monro, hearing of his movements, ad- 
vanced against him by rapid marches, hoping to sur- 
prise him in Armagh city. Monro's forces consisted, 
according to all the best authorities, of 6,000 foot, 800 
horse, and 7 field-pieces ; though some accounts raise 
his foot to 8,500, and he himself lowers it in his apol- 
ogetic dispatch to 3,400, and states his field-pieces 
at 6. 

Simultaneously with Monro's advance, his brother, 
Colonel George Monro, marched from Coleraine, 
along the west shore of Loch Neagh, with three 
troops of horse ; and a junction was to have been 
effected between the two Monrns and the Tyrconnell 
forces at Glasslough, a place in the county Mona- 
ghan, but only a few miles S. W. of Armagh. On 
the 4th of June, Owen Roe marched from Glasslough 
to Benburb, confident, by means of the river and 
hilly country, that he could prevent the intended 
junction. Monro bivouacked the same night at 
Hamilton's Bawn, four miles from Armagh. Before 
dawn on Friday, the oth, Monro marched to Armagh 
town, burning houses, and wasting crops as he ad- 
vanced. Fearful lest his brother, who had reached 
Dungannon, should be cut off, he marched towards 
Benburb, and on finding the strength of the Irish 
position there, advanced up the right bank of the 
Blackwater, hoping to tempt Owen from his ground. 
In the mean time a body of Irish horse, detached 
against George Monro, had met him near Dungan- 
non, and checked his advance, though with some 
loss. 

A good part of the day was thus spent, and it was 
two o'clock, in the afternoon before Monro crossed the 
Blackwater at Kinaird (now Caledon), and led his 
army down the left bank of the river against O'Neill. 
Tliis advance of Owen's to Ballykilgavin was only to 
consume time, and weary the enemy, for he shortly 
after retreated to Knocknacliagh, where he had de- 
termined to fight. It was now past four o'clock, 
when the enemy's foot advanced in a double line of 
columns. The first line consisted of five, and the 
second of four columns, much too close for manoeu- 



vring. 



The Irish front consisted of four, and the j 



serve of three divisions, with ample room. 

O'Neill's position was defended on the right by a 
wet bog, and on the left by the junction of the Black- 
water and the Oonagh. In his front was rough, 
hillocky ground, covered " with scrogs and bushes." 

Lieutenant-Colonel Richard O'FarreU occupied 
some strong ground in advance of Owen's position, 
but Colonel Cunningham, with 500 musketeers 
and the field-pieces, carried the pass, and O'Far- 
rell effected his retreat with little loss, and no dis- 
order. The field-guns were pushed iu advance by 



THE BATTLE OF BfiAL-A.N-ATHA-BUIDHE. 



Monro with most of his cavalry, but Owen kept the 
main body of his horse in reserve. 

A good deal of skirmishing took place, and though 
the enemy had gained much ground, his soldiers 
were growing weary ; it was five o'clock, and the 
evening sun of a clear and fiery June glared in their 
faces. While in this state, a body of cavalry was seen 
advancing from the northwest ; Monro declared them 
to be his brother's squadrons, and became confident 
of success. But a few minutes sufficed to undeceive 
him — they were the detachments, under Colonels 
Bernard MacMahon, and Patrick MacNeney, return- 
ing from Oungannon, after having driven George 
Monro back upon his route. 

The Scotch musketeers continued for some time to 
gain ground along the banks of the Oonagh, and 
threatened Owen's left, till the light cavalry of the 
Irish broke in among them, sabred many, drove the 
lest across the stream, and returned without any 
loss. The battle now became general. The Scotch 
eannon' posted on a slope, annoyed O'Neill's centre, 
and there seemed some danger of Monro's manoeu- 
vring to the west sufficiently to communicate with 
George Monro's corps. Owen, therefore, decided on 
a general attack, keeping only Rory Maguire's regi- 
ment as a reserve. His foot moved on in steady 
columns, and his horse in the spaces between the 
first and second charge of his masses. In vain did 
Monro's cavalry charge this determined infantry ; it 
threw back from its face squadron after squadron, 
and kept constantly, rapidly, and evenly advancing. 
In vain did Lord Blaney take pike in hand, and 
stand in the ranks. Though exposed to the play of 
Monro's guns and musketry, the Irish infantry 
charged up hill without firing a shot, and closed with 
sabre and pike. They met a gallant resistance. 
Blaney and his men held their ground long, till the 
superior vivacity and freshness of the Irish clansmen 
bote hira down. 

An attempt was made with the columns of the rear 
line to regain the ground ; but from the confined 
space in which they were drawn up, the attempt to 
manoeuvre them only produced disorder ; and just at 
this moment, to complete their ruin, O'Neill's cavalry, 
wheeling by the flanks of his columns, charged the 
Scotch cavalry, and drove them pell-mell upon the 
shaken and confused infantry. A total rout followed. 
Monro, Lord Conway, Captain Burke, and forty of 
the horsemen escaped across the Blackwater, but 
most of the foot were cut to pieces, or drowned in the 
river ; 3,423 of the enemy were found on the battle- 
field, and Lord Montgomery, with 21 officers, and 150 
men, were taken prisoners. O'Neill lost 70 kiUed 
including Colonel Manns, MacNeill, and Garve 
O'Donnell), and 200 wounded (including Lieutenants 
Colonel O'Farrell and PheUm MacTuohill O'Neill). 
He took all the Scots artillery, twenty stand of colors, 
and all the arms, save those of Sir James Mont- 
gomery, whose regiment, being on Monro's extreme 
right, effected its retreat in some order. 1,500 draft 
horses, and two months' provisions were also taken, 
but, unfortunately, Monro's ammunition blew up 



shortly after the battle was won. Monro fled without 
coat or wig to Lisburn. Moving from thence, he 
commanded every household to furnish two musket- 
eers ; he wrote an apologetic and deceptious dispatch 
to the Irish committee in London, burnt Dimdrum, 
and deserted most of Down. But all his efforts would 
have been in vain ; for O'Neill, having increased his 
army by Scotch deserters and fresh levies, to 10,000 
foot and 21 troops of horse, was in the very act of 
breaking in on him, with a certainty of expelling the 
last invader from Ulster, when the fatal command of 
the Nuncio reached Owen at Tanderagee, ordering 
him to march southward to support that factious 
ecclesiastic against the peace. O'Neill, in an un- 
happy hour, obeyed the Nuncio, abandoned the fruits 
of his splendid victory, and marched to Kilkenny. 



And Charlemonfs cannon 
Slew many a man on 

These meadows below. — Page 484. 

The following passage will sufficiently explain this 
allusion : 

" Early in June (1602) Lord Mountjoy marched by 
Dundalk to Armagh, and from thence, without inter- 
ruption, to the banks of the Blackwater, about five 
miles to the eastward of Portmore, and nearer to 
Loch Neagh. He sent Sir Richard Moryson to tho 
north bank of the river, commenced the building of 
a bridge at that point, and a castle, which he named 
Charlemont, from his own christian name, and sta- 
tioned a garrison of one hundred and fifty men there 
under the command of Captain Toby Caulfield — the 
founder of a noble family, which has held that spot 
from that day to this ; but which afterwards (as is 
usual with settlers in Ireland) became more Irish 
than many of the Irish themselves." — MUchel's Lift 
of Aodh ffNeii, p. 219 ; vide Irish Penny Journal 
for 1841-2, p. 317. 



And yonder Red Hngh^ 
Marshal Bagenal d'erthrew 

On, Beal-an-atha-buidhe. — Page C-o 

The Battle op Beal-an-atha-buidhe. 

(10th August, 1595.) 

"The tenth morning of August rose bright and 
serene upon the towers of Armagh, and the silver 
waters of Avonmore. Before day dawned, the Eng- 
lish army left the city in three divisions, and at sun- 
rise they were winding through the hills and woods 
behind the spot where now stands the little church 
of Grange. The sun was glancing < n the corsleta 
and spears of their glittering cavalry ; their banners 



waved proudly, and their bugles rang clear in the 
morning air ; when, suddenly from the thickets on 
both sides of their path, a deadly volley of musketry 
swept through the lbremost ranks. O'Neill had sta- 
tioned here five hundred light-armed troops to guard 
the defiles ; and in the shelter of thick groves of fir- 
trees they had silently waited for the enemy. Now 
they poured in their shot, volley after volley, and 
killed great numbers of the English ; but the first 
division, led by Bagnal in person, after some hard 
fighting, carried the pass, dislodged the marksmen 
from their position, and drove them backwards into 
the plain. The centre division, under Cosby and 
Wiuglield, and the rear-guard, led by Cuin and 
Billing, supported in flank by the cavalry under 
Brooke, Montacute, and Fleming, now pushed for- 
ward, sp?edily cleared the difficult country, and 
*brmed in the open ground in front of the Irish lines. 
It was not quite safe.' says an Irish chronicler (in 
admiration of Bagnal's disposition of his forces) ' to 
attack the nest of griffins and den of lions in which 
were placed the soldiers of London.' Bagnal, at the 
head of his first division, and aided by a body of 
cavalry, charged the Irish light-armed troops up to 
the very intrenchments, in front of which O'Neill's 
foresight had prepared some pits, covered over with 
wattles and grass ; and many of the English cavalry, 
rushing impetuously forward, rolled headlong, both 
men and horses, into these trenches, and perished. 
Still the Marshal's chosen troops, with loud cheers, 
and shouts of ' St.. George, for merry England !' res- 
olutely attacked the intrenchments that stretched 
acros3 the pass, battered them with cannon, and in 
one place succeeded, though with heavy loss, in 
forcing back their defenders. Then first the main 
body of O'Neill's troops was brought into action ; and 
with bagpipes sounding a charge, they fell upon the 
English, shouting their fierce battle-cries, Lamh- 
deary! and O'DhomJmaill Abu! O'Neill himself, at 
the head of a body of horse, pricked forward to seek 
out Bagnal amidst the throng of battle ; but they 
never met : the marshal, who had done his devoir 
that day like a good soldier, was shot through the 
brain by some unknown marksman ; the division he 
had led was forced back by the furious onslaught of 
the Irish, and put to utter rout ; and, what added to 
their confusion, a cart of gunpowder exploded amidst 
the English ranks, and blew many of their men to 
atoms. And now the cavalry of Tyr-connell and 
Tyr-owen dashed into the plain, and bore down the 
remnant of Brooke's and Fleming's horse; the col- 
umn.- of Wingfield and Cosby reeled before their 
rushing charge— while in front, to the war-cry of 
Biltuilla Abu! the swords and axes of the heavy- 
armed galloglasses were raging amongst the Saxon 
ranks. By this time the cannon were all taken ; the 
cries of St. George' had failed, or turned into death- 
shrieks ; and once more, England's royal standard 
sunk before the Red Hand of Tyr-owen. 

" The last who resisted was the traitor O'Reilly ; 
twice he tried to rally the flying squadrons, but was 
slaiu in the attempt : and at last the whole of that 
•fine army was utterly routed, and fled uellmell to- 



wards Armagh, with the Irish hanging fiercely on 
their rear. Amidst the woods and marshes all , on- 
nection and order were speedily lost ; and as O'Don 
noil's chronicler has it, they were ' pursued in couples, 
in threes, in scores, in thirties, and in hundreds.' 
and so cut down in detail by their avenging pursu- 
ers. In one spot, especially, the carnage was ter- 
rible, and the country people yet point out the lane 
where that hideous rout passed by, and call it to this 
day the ' Bloody Loaning.' Two thousand five hun- 
dred English were slain in the battle and flight, 
including twenty-three superior officers, besides lieu- 
tenants and ensigns. Twelve thousand gold pieces, 
thirty-four standards, all the musical instruments 
and cannon, with a long train of provision wagons, 
were a rich spoil for the Irish army. The confed' 
erates had only two hundred slain and six hundred 
wounded. 

MUcJieVs Life of AooVi O'NeUl, pp. 141-144. 



Cymric Role and Cymric Rulers. — Page 486. 

This poem has less title than any other in Part 1 
to be ranked among National (i. e., either in subject, 
or by aim or allusion, Irish) Ballads aud Songs, un- 
less the affinity of the Cymric with the Irish Colts, 
and the fact that the author himself was of Welsh 
extraction by the father's side, be considered a suf- 
ficient justification. 

Mr. Davis was very fond of the air — " The March 
of the Men of Harlech," to which this poem is set. 
To evince his strong partiality for, and sympathy 
with the Welsh people, it is enough to quote the 
following passage from one of his political essays : 

"We just now opened M'Cuttoch's Geographical 
Dictionary to ascertain some Welsh statistics, and 
found at the name ' Wales' a reference to ' England 
and Wales,' and at the latter title nothing distinct 
on the Principality ; and what was there was rather 
inferior to the information on Cumberland, or most 
English counties. 

" And has time, then, we said, mouldered away 
that obstinate and fiery tribe of Celts, which baffled 
the Plantagenets, which so often trod upon the 
breastplates of the Norman, which sometimes bent 
in the summer, but ever rose when the fierce ele- 
ments of winter came to aid the native 1 Has that 
race passed away, wluch stood under Llewellyn, and 
rallied under Owen Glendower, and gave the Dragon 
flag and Tudor kings to England? Is the prophecy 
of twelve hundred years false— are the people and 
tongue passed away ? 

" No ! spite of the massacre of bards, and the 
burning of records— spite of political extinction, 
there is a million of these Kymrja in Wales and its 
marches ; and nine out of ten of these speak their 
old tongue, follow their old customs, sing the songs 
which the sleepers upon Snowdon made, have thei 



THE FATE OF KING DATHI. 



543 



religious rites in Kyrnric, and hate the Logrian as 
much as ever their fathers did. . . . 

" Twenty-nine Welsh members could do much if 
united, more especially if they would co-operate with 
the Irish and Scotch members in demanding their 
enare of the imperial expenditure ; or what would 
be safer and better, in agitating for a local council to 
administer the local affairs of the Principality. A 
million of the Kyniry, who are still apart in their 
mountains, who have immense mineral resources, 
and some good harbors, one (Milford) the best in 
Britain, and who are of our blood, nearly of our old 
and un-English language, have as good a right to a 
local senate as the 700,000 people of Greece, or the 
half million of Cassel or Mecklenburgh have to inde- 
pendence, or as each of the States of America has to 
a local congress. Localization by means of Federal- 
ism seems the natural and best resource of a country 
like Wales to guard its purse, and language, and 
character from imperial oppression, and its soil from 
foreign invasion. As powers run, it is not, like Ire- 
land, qftite able, if free, to hold her own ; but it has 
importance enough to entitle it to a local congress 
for its local affairs." 



The Irish Hurrah.— Page 488. 

The second stanza of this poem, as it appears in 
the text, was omitted by the author in a later copy ; 
it would seem, with a view of adapting it better to 
the air to which it is set. 



A Christmas Scene. — Page 499. 

The first sketch of this poem differs a good deal 
from that in the text. It is so pleasing, that it is 
given here as originally published. It was then en- 
titled • 

A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 



it comes howling from leaf-rifted trees, 
vere us harp-strings to each gentle breeze ; 
en have parted, the blue-stockings gone, 
; happy-hearted — together, alone. 



j through the window 1 



ve o, the light and the shade, 
pets of lake, bill, and glade; 
our eye, and your soft wavy form, 
j by the hearth bright and warm. 



My Kate, I'm so happy, your voice whispers soft, 
And your cheek flushes wilder by kisBins so oft ; 
Should our kiss grow less fond, or the weather serene, 
Forth together we'll wander to see each loved scene. 



And at eve, as the sportsmen and pedants will say, 
As they swallow their dinner, how they spent the day, 
Your eye, roguish-smiling, to me only will say 
That more sweetly than any, you and I spent the day. 



The Pate 



King Dathi. — Page I 



The real adventures of this warlike king, the lasl 
of the Pagan monarchs of Ireland, and likewise the 
last who extended his conquests to the continent of 
Europe, are, like too much of the ancient annals of 
the country, obscured by the mixture of pious or ro- 
mantic legends with authentic history. An accurate 
account of Dathi, and his immediate predecessors 
will be found in the addenda to Mr. O'Donovan's ex- 
cellent edition of tiie "Tribes and Customs of the 
Ui-Fiachrach," printed for the Irish Archaeological 
Society ; from which the following passages are 
extracted. 

"In the lifetime of Niall of the Nine Hostages, 
Brian, his brother of the half-blood, became King of 
Connaught, and his second brother of the half-blood, 
Fiachra, the ancestor of the O'Dowds and all the 
Ui-Fiachrach tribes, became chief of the district ex- 
tending from Cam Fearadhaigh, near Limerick, to 
Magh Mucroime, near Athenry . But dissensions soon 
arose between Brian and his brother Fiachra, and th6 
result was that a battle was fought between them, in 
which the latter was defeated, and delivered as a host- 
age into the hands of Ms half-brother, Niall of the 
Nine Hostages. After this, however, Dathi, a very 
warlike youth, waged war on his Uncle Brian, and 
challenged him to a pitched battle, at a place called 
Damh-cluain, not far from Knockmea-hill, near Tuam. 
In this battle, in which Dathi was assisted by Crim- 
thann, son of Enna Cennseloch, King of Leinster, 
Brian and his forces were routed, and pursued from 
the field of battle to Fulcha DomhnaOl, where he was 
overtaken and slain by Crimthann. . . . 

" After the fall of Brian, Fiachra was set at liberty 
and installed King of Connaught, and enjoyed that 
dignity for twelve years, during which period he was 
general of the forces of his brother Niall. According 
to the book of Lecan, this Fiachra had five sons, of 
which the most eminent were Dathi, and Amhalgaidh 
(vulgo, Awley), King of Connaught, who died in the 
year 449. The seven sons of this Amhalgaidh, to- 
gether with twelve thousand men, are said to have 
been baptized in one day by St. Patrick, at Forrach 
Mac n* Amhalgaidh, near Killala. 

" On the death of his father Fiachra, Dathi becam« 
King of Connaught, and on the death of his unde, 
Niall of the Nine Hostages, he became Monarch of 
Ireland, leaving the government of Connaught to hi* 



less wir'ilp ; r the* Amlnlgaidh. Kin-.: Dathi, foJ- 
[owing the example of Ilia predecessor, NiaH, not only 
Invaded the coasts of Gaul, but forced hia way to the 
y foot of the Alps, where he was killed by a flash 
r>f lightning, leaving the throne of Ireland to be 
filled by a. line of Christian kings." 

Tribes and Customs of the UirMachntc?i— Addenda, 
pp. 844-6. 



Argan M6r.— Page 504. 

Mr. Davis was very fond of the air for which this 
poem was composed, and which suggested its name. 
It is a simple air, of great antiquity, preserved in 
Bunting's Third Collection, where it is No. V. of the. 
airs marked " very ancient." The following is Mr. 
Bunting's account of it : 

"Argan M6r. — An Ossianic air, still sung to the 
words preserved by Dr. Young, and published in the 
first volume of the Transactions of the Royal Irish 
Academy. The editor took down the notes from the 
singing, or rather recitation, of a native of Murloch, 
in the county of Antrim. This sequestered district 
lies along the seashore, between Tor Point and Fair 
Head, and is still rife with traditions, both musical 
and legendary. From the neighboring ports of 
Cushendun and Cushendall was the principal line of 
communication with Scotland ; and, doubtless, it was 
by this route that the Ossianic poems themselves 
found their way into that country." — Ancient Music 
of Ireland.— Preface, p. 88. 



The True Irish King.— Page 505. 

In an essay on Ballad History, Mr. Davis refers to 
this poem, as an attempt to show how the materials 
and hints, scattered through antiquarian volumes, 
may be brought together and presented with effect 
in a poetical form. The subject is one involved in 
unusual obscurity, considering its importance in Irish 
History. The chief notices of the custom have been 
collected by Mr. O'Donovan in the Addenda to his 
edition of the Tnbes and Customs of the Ui-Machrach, 
pp. 425-452, to which work the reader is referred ( 
who may wish to trace the disjecta membra poematis, 
in the scattered hints and traditions of which Mr. 
Davis has availed himself. 



O'Suijuvan's Return.— Page 610. 

The following description was prefixed to this ballad 
by the author, on its first publication : 

1 u Among other place* which were neither yielded nor taken to 
the end they should be delivered to the English. Don Juan tied 
himself to deliver my castle and haven, the only key of mine 
aheritance whereupon the living of many thousand person 



" "".,» ballad is founded on an ill-remembered s 
of an Irish chief, returning after long absence on t 
Continent, and being wrecked and drowned i 
his own castle. 

" The scene is laid in Bantry Bay, which runs 
into the county of Cork, in a northeasterly directio 
A few miles from its mouth, on your left hand i 
go up, lies Beare Island (about seven miles long), i 
between it and the mainland of Beare lies 
Haven, one of the finest harbors in the World. 
boy Castle, near the present Castletown, was on j 
main, so as to command the southwestern ent 
to the haven. 

" Further up, along the same shore of Beare, i 
Adragoole, a small gulf off Bantry Bay. 

"The scene of the wreck is at the suutheuste 
shore of Beare Island. A ship steering from Sp 
by Mizenhead for Dunboy, and caught by a soutlie 
gale, if unable to round the point of Beare and 
make the Haven, should leave herself room to run t 
the bay, towards Adragoole, or some other shelter." 



— Dunbwy is lying lowly. 

Tlie halls where mirth and minstrelsy 

Than Beards wind rose Uivder, 
Arefiung in maizes lonelily, 
And black with English powder. 

Page 512. 

The destruction of O'Sullivan's Castle of Dunboy 
or Dunbwy (correctly Dunbaoi or Dunuuidhe) is well 
described by Mr. Mitchel : 

" Mountjoy spent that spring in Munster, with the 
President, reducing those fortresses which still re- 
mained in the hands of the Irish, and fiercely crush- 
ing down every vestige of the national war. Richard 
Tyrrell, however, still kept the field ; and O'Sullivaa 
Beare held his strong castle of Dun-buidlie. which he 
wrested from the Spaniards after Don Juan had 
stipulated to yield it to the enemy. 1 This castle 
commanded Bantry Bay, and was one of the most 
important fortresses in Munster, and therefore Carew 
determined, at whatever cost, to make himself master 
of it. Dun-buidhe was but a square tower, with a 
courtyard and some outworks, and had but 140 
men ; yet it was so strongly situated, and so bravely 
defended, that it held the Lord President and an 
army of four thousand men, with a great train of 
artillery and some ships of war, fifteen days before 
its walls. After a breach was made, the storming 
parties were twice driven back to their lines ; and 
even after the great hall of the castle was carried , the 
garrison, under their indomitable commander, Mac 
Geohegan, held their ground in the vaults under- 
neath for a whole day, and at last fairly beat the 

doth rest, that live some twenty leagues upon the seacost, 
into the hands of my cruel, cursed, misbelieving enemies." 
— Letuw of Donald O'Sullivan Beare to the King of Bpcin.— Pae 



A RALLY FOR IRELAND. 



\ besiegers out of the hall. The English cannon then 
played furiously upon the walls ; and the President 
: to bury these obstinate Irish under the ruins. 
Again a desperate sortie was made by forty men — 
they were all slain : eight of them leaped into the 
e themselves by swimming ; but Carew, 
anticipating this, had stationed Captain Harvy ' with 
three boats to keep the sea, but had the killing of 
1 all ;' and at last, after Mac Geohegan was mortal- 
ly wounded, the remnant of the garrison laid down 
their arms. Mac Geohegan lay, bleeding to death, on 
the floor of the vault ; yet when he saw the besiegers 
admitted, he raised himself up, snatched a lighted 
torch, and staggered to an open powder-barrel — one 
moment, and the castle, with all it contained, would 
have rushed skyward in a pyramid of flame, when 
suddenly an English soldier seized him in his arms ; 
he was killed on the spot, and all the rest were shortly 
after executed. ' The whole number of the ward,' 
gays Carew, ' consisted of one hundred and forty- 
three selected men, being the best choice of all their 
'orces, of which not one man escaped, but were either 
slain, executed, or buried in the ruins ; and so obsti- 
nate a defence hath not been seen within this king- 
dom.' Perhaps some will think that the survivors 
of so brave a band deserved a better fate than hang- 
ing." 

MUchel's life ofAodh O'JfeiU, pp. 216-218. 



Lament for Owen Roe O'Neill.— Page 514. 

The m- -it notable events in the career of this great 
thieftain .vill be found in the account of the Battle of 
Benburb, ante, p. 539. The closing scenes of his 
life were briefly narrated as follows, by Mr. Davis, 
In a little sketch, published with this poem when it 
first appeared : 

" In 1649, the country being exhausted, Owen 
made a truce with Monk, Coote, and the Indepen- 
dents—a truce observed on both sides, though Monk 
was severely censured by the English Parliament for 
it.— (Journals, 10th August, 1649.) On its expiration, 
O'Neill concluded a treaty with Ormond, 12th Oc- 
tober, 1649 ; and so eager was he for it, that ere it 
was signed he sent over 3,000 men, under Major- 
General O'Farrell, to join Ormond (which they did 
October 25th). Owen himself strove with all haste 
to follow, to encounter Cromwell, who had marched 
south after the sack of Drogheda. But fate and an un- 
scrupulous foe forbade. Poison, it is believed, had been 
given him either at Derry, or shortly after. His con- 
stitution struggled with it for some time ; slowly and 
Binking, he marched through Tyrone and Monaghan 
into Cavan, and — anxiously looked for by Ormond, 
O'Farrell, and the southern corps and army — lingered 
till the 6th of November (St. Leonard's feast), when 
he died at Clough Oughter Castle — then the seat of 
Maelmorra O'Reilly, and situated on a rock in Lough 
Oughter, some six miles west of Cavan. He was 



buried, says Carte, in Cavan Abbey ; but report says 
his sepulchre was concealed, lest it should be violated 
by the English. The news of his death reached Or- 
mond's camp when the duke was preparing to fight 
Cromwell — when Owen's genius and soldiers were 
most needed. All writers (even to the sceptical Dr. 
O'Conor, of Stowe) admit that, had Owen lived, he 
would have saved Ireland. His gallantry, his influ- 
ence, his genius, his soldiers, all combine to render it 
probable. The rashness with which the stout bishop, 
Ebher Mac Mahon, led 4,000 of Owen's veterans to 
death at Letterkenny, the year after ; and the way in 
which Ormond frittered away the strength of O'Far- 
rel's division (though 1,200 of them slew 2,000 of 
Cromwell's men in the breach at Clonmel) — and the 
utter prostration which followed, showed Ireland how 
great was her loss when Owen died. 

"O'Farrell, Red Hugh O'Neill, and Mac Mahon 
were Ulster generals ; Audley, Lord Castlehaven, 
and Preston commanded in the south and east ; the 
Marquis of Clanricarde was president of Counaught." 



A Rally for Ireland.— Page 515. 

There is no period in Irish, or in English History, 
which has been so much misrepresented, or of which 
so utterly discordant opinions are still entertained,, 
as the Revolution of 1688-91. The English history 
of that revolution has been elaborately sifted, and its 
hidden causes successively dragged to light by men 
of remarkable eminence in literature and in politics. 
It is sufficient to mention, in England, Mr. Fox, Sir 
James Mackintosh, Mr. Hallam, Dr. Lingard, and Mr. 
Ward ; — in France, M. Thierry (Historical Essays. 
No. VI.), M. Carrel, and M. De Mazire— and among 
Irishmen, Mr. W. Wallace (Continuation of Mackin- 
tosh's History), and Mr. Torrens Mac Cullagh (articles 
in the " North of England Magazine" for 1842, and in 
the " Dublin Magazine" for 1843). A minute study of 
some, at least, of these writers — Mr. Wallace's history 
is, perhaps, on the whole, the fairest and most com- 
prehensive — is indispensable to a correct understand- 
ing of the Irish question. 

In the "Dublin Magazine" for 1843, January to 
April, Mr. Davis devoted a series of papers to a critical 
examination of some of the Irish authorities on this 
subject, principally in regard to the Irish Parliament 
of 1689. His aim was to vindicate the character of 
that legislature, and to refute some of the most glar 
ing falsehoods which had hitherto, by dint of impu- 
dent reassertion, passed almost unquestioned by 
Irishmen of every shade of political opinion. False- 
hoods of a more injurious tendency have never been 
current among a people ; and the effort to expose 
them was with Mr. Davis a labor of zeal and love ; 
for he knew well how much of the religious dissen 
sion which has been, and is the ruin of Ireland, took 
its rise from, and stands rooted in erroneous concep 
tions of that time. To these papers the reader if 



APPENDIX. 



referred, who is anxious to form an accurate, and 
witlml a national judgment of the cardinal crisis in 
Irish History. 

How high the hopes of Ireland were at the com- 
mencement of this struggle, and how she cherished 
afterwards the memories and hopes bequeathed from 
it, is abundantly illustrated by the Jacobite Relics in 
Mr. Hardman's Irish Minstrelsy, and in the more 
recent collection of Mr. Daly. 



Ballads ajTO Songs op the Brigade. 

Pp. 518-524. 

3o OoiiBiderable a space in this volume is occupied 
"by poems, founded on the adventures and services of 
►he Irish Brigade, that it seemed right to include 
here the following sketch, written by Mr. Davis in 
the year 1844 : 

HISTORICAL SKETCH OF THE IRISH BRIGADE. 
INTRODUCTION. 

The foreign military achievements of the Irish 
began on their own account. They conquered and 
colonized Scotland, frequently overrun England dur- 
ing and after the Roman dominion there, and more 
than once penetrated into Gaul. During the time of 
the Danish invasion they had enough to do at home. 
Tile progress of the English conquest brought them 
'again to battle on foreign ground. It is a melan- 
choly fact, that in the brigades wherewith Edward I. 
ravaged Scotland, there were numbers of Irish and 
Welsh. Yet Scotland may be content ; Wales and 
Ireland suffered from the same baseness. The sacred 
heights of Suowdou (the Parnassus of Wales) were 
first forced by Gascon mountaineers, whose indepen- 
dence had perished ; and the Scotch did no small 
share of blood-work for England here, from the time 
of Monro's defeats in the Seventeenth Century, to 
the Fencible victories over drunken peasants in 1798. 

In these levies of Edward I., as in those of his son. 
were numbers of native Irish. The Connaught clans 
in particular seem to have served these Plantagenets. 

From Edward Bruco'siuvasion, the English control 
was so broken that the Irish clans ceased to serve al- 
together, and, indeed, shortly after made many of the 
Anglo-Irish pay them tribute. But the lords of the 
Pale took an active and prominent part in the wars 
of the Roses ; and their vassals shared the victories, 
the defeats, and the carnage of the time. 

In the Continental wars of Edward III. and Henry 
V., the Norman-Irish served with much distinction. 

Henry VIII. demanded of the Irish government 
2,000 men, 1,000 of whom were, if possible, to be 
gunners — i. e,, armed with matchlocks. The services 
of these Irish during the short war in France, and 
especiaUy at the 6iege of Boulogne, are well known. 

At Ae submission of Ireland in 1003, O'Sullivan 
8 if a, and some others excepted from the amnesty, 



took service and obtained high rank in Spain : and 
after the flight of O'Neill and O'Donnell in 1607, 
numbers of Irish crowded into all the Continental ser- 
vices. We find them holding commissions in Spain, 
France, Austria, and Italy. 

Scattered among " Strafford's Letters," various in- 
dications are discoverable of the estimation in which 
the Irish were held as soldiers in foreign services 
during the early part of the seventeenth century. 
The Spanish government, in particular, seems to have 
been extremely desirous of enlisting in Ireland, tiieir 
own troops at that time being equal, if not superior, 
to any in the world, especially their infantry. 

Nor were the Irish troops less active for the English 
king. Strafford had increased the Irish army. These 
he paid regularly, clothed well, and frequently " drew 
out in large bodies." He meant to oppress, but dis- 
cipline is a precious thing, no matter who teaches it 
— a Strafford or a Wellington ; and during the wars 
which followed 1641, some of these troops he had 
raised served Ireland. In 1639, when the first row 
with the Scotch took place, Wentworth was able to 
send a garrison of 500 Irish to Carlisle, and other 
forces to assist Charles. And the victories of Mon- 
trose were owing to the valor and discipline of the 
Irish auxiliaries under Colkitto (left handed) Alislt-r 
Mac Donnell. 

Many of the Irish who had lost their fortunes by 
the Cromwellian wars, served on the Continent. 

Tyrconnell increased the Irish army, but with less 
judgment than Strafford. Indeed, numbers of his 
regiments were ill-officered mobs, and, when .-eal 
work began in 1689, were disbanded as having 
neither arms nor discipline. His sending of the Irish 
troops to England hastened the Revolution by excit- 
ing jealousy, and they were too mere a handful to 
resist. They were forced to enter the service of 
German princes, especially the Prussian. 

[An account of the formation of the Irish Brigade, 
with the names and numbers of the regiments, etc., 
is omitted here, as more accurate details will be found 
in The History of the Irish Brigade, which is to 
appear in the Library of Ireland] 

SERVICES OP THE IRISH BRIGADE. 

The year before the English Revolution of 88, 
William effected the league of Augsburg, and com- 
bined Spain, Italy, Holland, and the empire, against 
France ; but except some sieges of imperial towns, 
the war made no great progress till 1690. In that 
year France blazed out ruin on all sides. The Pala- 
tinate was overrun and devastated. The defeat of 
Humieres at Valeourt was overweighed by Luxem- 
burgh's great victory over Prince Waldech at Fleurus. 

But, as yet, no Irish troops served north of the 
Alps. It was otherwise in Italy. 

The Duke of Savoy having joined the Allies, Marshal 
Catinat entered his territories at the head of 18,000 
men. Mountcashel's brigade, which landed in May 
and had seen service, formed one-third of this corps. 
Catinat, a disciple of Turenne, relied on his infantry ; 
nor did he err in this instance. On the 8th of August, 
1690. he met the Duke of Savoy and Prince Eugene at 



BALLADS AND SONGS OF THE BRIGADE. 



547 



Staflardo, near Saluoco. The battle began by a 
feigned attack on the Allies' right wing. The real 
attack was made by ten battalions of infantry, who 
■crossed some marshes heretofore deemed impassable, 
turned the left wing commanded by Prince Eugene, 
drove it in on the centre, and totally routed the enemy. 
The Irish troops ("bog-trotters," the " Times" calls us 
' now) proved that there are more qualities in a soldier 
! than the light step and hardy frame which the Irish 
bog gives to its inhabitants. 

But the gallant Mountcashel received a wound, of 
' which he died soon after at Bareges. 

This same brigade continued to serve under Cati- 
nat throughout the Italian campaigns of '91, '92, and 
'93. 

The principal action of this last year was at Mar- 
siglia, on the 4th October. It was not materially 
different in tactic from Staffardo. Catinat, cannonad- 
ing the Allies from a height, made a feigned attack 
in the centre, while his right wing lapped round 
Savoy's left, tumbled it in, and routed the army with 
a loss of 8,000, including Duke Schomberg, son to 
him who died at the Boyne. On this day, too, the 
JIunster soldiers had their full share of the laurels. 

They continued to serve during the whole of this 
war against Savoy ; and when, in 1696, the duke 
changed sides, and, uniting his forces with Catinat's, 
laid siege to Valenza in North Italy, the Irish dis- 
tinguished themselves again. No less than six Irish 
regiments were at this siege. 

While these campaigns were going on in Italy, the 
garrison of Limerick landed in France, and the second 
Irish Brigade was formed. 

The Flanders campaign of '91 hardly went beyond 
■skirmishes. 

Louis opened 1692 by besieging Namur at the 
head of 120,000 men, including the bulk of the Irish 
Brigade. Luxeniburgh was the actual commander, 
and Vauban the engineer. Namur, one of tke great- 
est fortresses of Flanders, was defended by Coehorn, 
the ail-but equal of Vauban ; and William advanced 
to its relief at the head of 100,000 men, — illustrious 
players of that fearful game. But French and Irish 
valor, pioneered by Vauban and manoeuvred by Lux- 
emburgh, prevailed. In seven days Namur was 
taken, and shortly after the citadel surrendered, 
though within shot of William's camp. 

Louis returned to Versailles, and Luxemburgh con- 
tinued his progress. 

On the 24th of July, 1692, William attempted to 
steal a victory from the marshal who had so repeat- 
edly beaten him. Having forced a spy to persuade 
Luxemburgh that the Allies meant only to forage, 
he made an attack on the French camp, then 
placed between Steenkirk and Enghien. Wirtemburg 
and Mackay had actually penetrated the French 
camp ere Luxemburgh mounted his horse. But so 
rapid were his movements, so skilfully did he divide 
the Allies and crash Wirtemburg ere Count Solmes 
could help him, that the enemy was driven off with 
the loss of 3,000 men, and many colors and can- 
non. 

Sarsfield, who commanded the Brigade that day, 



was publicly thanked for his conduct. In Maich, 
1693, he was made a MareBchal de Camp. 

But his proud career was drawing to a close. He 
was slain on the 29th July, 1693, at Landen, heading 
his countrymen in the van of victory, King William 
flying. He could not have died better. His last 
thoughts were for his country. As he lay on the 
field unhelmed and dying, he put his hand to his 
breast. When he took it away, it was full of his best 
blood. Looking at it sadly with an eye in which 
victory shone a moment before, he said faintly, " Oh ' 
that this were for Ireland." He said no more ; and 
history records no nobler saying, nor any more be- 



lt is needless to follow out the details of the Italian 
and Flanders campaigns. Suffice, that bodies of the 
Irish troops served in each of the great armies, and 
maintained their position in the French ranks during 
years of hard and incessant war. 

James II. died at St. Germains on the 16th Septem- 
ber, 1701, and was buried in the church of the Eng - 
lish Benedictines in Paris. But his death did not 
affect the Brigade. Louis immediately acknowledged 
his son James HI., and the Brigade, upon which tli6 
king's hopes of restoration lay, was continued. 

In 1701, Sheldon's cavalry, then serving under 
Catinat in Italy, had an engagement with the cavalry 
corps under the famous Count Merci, and handled 
them so roughly that Sheldon was made a lieutetant- 
general of France, and the supernumeraries of his 
corps were put on full pay. 

In January, 1702, occurred the famous rescue of 
Cremona. Villeroy succeeded Catinat in August, 
1701, and having, with his usual rashness, attacked 
Eugene's camp at Chiari, he was defeated. Both 
parties retired early to winter-quarters, Eugene en- 
camping so as to blockade Mantua. While thus 
placed, he opened an intrigue with one Cassoli, a priest 
of Cremona, where Villeroy had his headquarters. 
An old aqueduct passed under Cassoli's house, and he 
had it cleared of mud and weeds by the authorities, 
under pretence that his house was injured for want 
of drainage. Having opened this way, he got several 
of Eugene's grenadiers into the town disguised, and 
now at the end of January all was ready. 

Cremona lies on the left bank of the river Po. 2 It 
was then five miles round, was guarded by a strong 
castle and by an enceinte, or continued fortification 
all around it, pierced by five gateB. One of these 
gates led almost directly to the bridge over the Po. 
This bridge was fortified by a redoubt. 

Eugene's design was to surprise the town at night. 
He meant to penetrate on two sides, south and north 
Prince Charles of Vandemont crossed the Po at 
Firenzola, and marching up the right bank with 



1 According to Mr. O'Conor (Military History of the Irish 
Nation, p. '2'23), " there was no Irish corps in the army of Lnx- 
einburgb. and Sarsfield fell leading on a charge of strangers." Bur 
this only makes his death, and the regrets which accompanied it, 
the mure affecting. — Ed. 

2 In talking of right or left banks of rivers, yon are supposed to 
be looking down the stream. Thus, Connaught is on the right 
bank of the Shannon ; Loinster and Munster on its left bank. 



APPENDIX. 



2,500 foot and 500 horse, «vas to assault the bridge 
and gate of the Po as soon as Eugene had entered 
on the north. As this northern attack was more 
complicated, and as it succeeded, it may be best de- 
scribed in the narrative of events. 

On the 31st of January, Eugene crossed the Oglio 
at Ustiano, and approached the north of the town. 
Marshal Villeroy had that night returned from a war- 
council at Milan. 

At three o'clock in the morning of the 1st of Feb- 
ruary, the allies closed in on the town in the follow- 
ing order : 1,100 men under Count Kufstein entered 
by the aqueduct ; 300 men were led to the gate of 
St. Margaret's, which had been walled up, and hn- 
mediately commenced removing the wall from it ; 
meantime, the other troops, under Kufstein, pushed 
on, and secured the ramparts to some distance, and 
as soon as the gate was cleared, a vanguard of 
horse, under Count Merci, dashed through the town. 
Eugene, Staremberg, and Prince Commerci followed 
with 7,000 horse and foot. Patrols of cavalry rode 
the streets ; Staremberg seized the great square ; the 
barracks of four regiments were surrounded, and the 
men cut down as they appeared. 

Marshal Villeroy, hearing the tumult, hastily 
burned his papess, and rode out, attended only by a 
page. He was quickly snapped up by a party of 
Eugene's cavalry, commanded by an Irishman named 
MacDonnell. Villeroy, seeing himself in the hands 
of a soldier of fortune, hoped to escape by bribery. 
He made offer after offer. A thousand pistoles and a 
regiment of horse were refused by this poor Irish 
captain ; and Villeroy rode out of the town with Ms 
captor. 

The Marquis of Mongon, General Crenant, and 
other officers, shared the same fate ; and Eugene as- 
sembled the town council to take an oath of alle- 
giance, and supply him with 14,000 rations. All 
seemed lost. 

All was not lost. The Po gate was held by 35 
Irishmen, and to Merci's charge and shout they 
answered with a fire that forced their assailant to 
pass on to the rampart, where he seized a battery. 
This unexpected and almost rash resistance was the 
very turning point of the attack. Had Merci got 
this gate, he had only to ride on and open the bridge 
to Prince Vaudemont. The entry of 3,000 men 
more, and on that side, would have soon ended the 
contest. 

Not far from this same gate of the Po were the 
quarters of two Irish regiments, Dillon (one of 
Mountcashel's old brigade) and Burke (the Athlone 
regiment.) Dillon's regiment was, in Colonel Lacy's 
absence, commanded by Major Mahony. He had 
ordered his regiment to assemble for exercise at day- 
break, and lay down. He was woke by the noise of 
the Imperial Cuirassiers passing his lodgings. He 
jumped up, and finding how things were, got off to 
the two corps and found them turning out in their 
shirts to check the Imperialists, who swarmed round 
their quarters. 

He had just got his men together when General 
D'Arenes came up, put himself at the head of these 



regiments, who had nothing but their musket*, 
shirts, and cartouches about them. He instantly 
led them against Merci's force, and, aftei a sharp 
struggle, drove them from the ramparts, killing 
large numbers, and taking many prisoners, amongst 
others MacDonnell, who returned to fight after scour- 
ing Villeroy. 

In the mean time, Estrague's regiment bad made a 
post of a few houses in the great square ; Count 
Revel had given the word, " French to the ram- 
parts," and retook All-Saints' Gate, while M. Prasiin 
made head against the Imperial Cavalry patrols. 
But when Revel attempted to push further round 
the ramparts, and regain St. Margaret's Gate, he was 
repulsed with heavy loss, and D'Arenes. who seems 
to have been everywhere, was wounded. 

It was now ten o'clock in the day, and Mahony 
had received orders to fight his way from the Po to 
the Mantua Gate, leaving a detachment to guard the 
rampart from which he had driven Merci. He 
pushed on, driving the enemy's infantry before him, 
but suffering much from their fire, when Baron Frei- 
berg, at the head of a regiment of Imperial Cuiras- 
siers, burst into Dillon's regiment. For a while 
their case seemed desperate ; but, almost naked as 
they were, they grappled with their foes. The linen 
shirt and the steel cuirass — the naked footman, and 
xhe harnessed cavalier met, and the conflict wag 
desperate and doubtful. Just at this moment Ma- 
hony grasped the bridle of Freiberg's horse, and bid 
him ask quarter. " No quarter to-day," said Irei- 
berg, dashing his spurs into his horse. He was in- 
stantly shot. The cuirassiers saw and paused ; the 
Irish shouted and slashed at them. The volley came 
better, and the sabres wavered. Few of the cuiras- 
siers lived to fly ; but all who survived did fly ; and 
there stood those glorious fellows in the wintry 
streets, bloody, triumphant, half-naked. Bourke lost 
seven officers and forty-two soldiers killed, and nine 
officers and fifty soldiers wounded. Dillon had one 
officer and forty-nine soldiers killed, and twelve 
officers and seventy-nine soldiers wounded. 

But what matter for death or wounds ! Cremona 
is saved. Eugene waited long for Vaudemont, but 
the French, guarded from Merci's attack by the Irish 
picket of 35, had ample time to evacuate the redoubt, 
and ruin the bridge of boats. 

On hearing of Freiberg's death, Eugene made an 
effort to keep the town by frightening the council. 
On hearing of the destruction of the bridge he de- 
spaired, and effected his retreat with consummate 
skill, retaining Villeroy and 100 other officers pris- 
oners. 

Europe rang with applause. Mr. Forman men- 
tions what we think a very doubtful saying of King 
William's about this event. There is no such ques- 
tion as to King Louis. He sent his public and for- 
mal thanks to them, and raised their pay forthwith 
We would not like to meet the Irishman who 
knowing these facts, would pass the north of Italy,, 
and not track the steps of the Irish regiments 
through the streets and gates and ramparts of Cre- 
mona. 



BALLADS AND SONGS OF THE BRIGADE. 



In the campaigns of 1703, the Irish distinguished 
themselves under Vendome in Italy, at Vittoria, Luz- 
zara, Cassano, and Calcinate-, and still more on the 
Rhine. When Villars won the battle of Freidlin- 
gen, the Irish had their share of the glory. At 
Spires, when Tallard defeated the Germans, they had 
more. Tallard had surprised the enemy, but their 
commander, the Prince of Hesse, rallied his men, 
and, although he had three horses shot under him. he 
repelled the attack, and was getting Ms troops well 
into hand. At this crisis Nugent's regiment of horse 
was ordered to charge a corps of German cuirassiers. 
They did so effectually. The German cavalry was 
tut up ; the French infantry, thus covered, returned 
to their work, and Hesse was finally defeated with 
nmense loss. 

And now the fortunes of France began to waver, 
but the valor of the Brigade did not change. 

It is impossible, in our space, to do more than 
glance at the battles in which they won fame amid 
general defeat. 

At the battle of Hochstet, or Blenheim, in 1704, 
Marshal Tallard was defeated and taken prisoner by 
Marlborough and Eugene. The French and Bava- 
is lost 10,000 killed, 13,000 prisoners, and 90 
pieces of cannon. Yet, amid this monstrous disaster, 
Clare's dragoons were victorious over a portion of 
Eugene's famous cavalry, and took two standards. 
And in the battle of Ramillies, in 1706, where Ville- 
roy was utterly routed, Clare's dragoons attempted 
to cover the wreck of the retreating French, broke 
through an English regiment, and followed them 
into the thronging van of the Allies. Mr. Forman 
states that they were generously assisted out of this 
predicament by an Italian regiment, and succeeded in 
carrying off the English colors they had taken. 

At the sad days of Oudenarde and Malplaquet, 
some of them were also present ; but to the victories 
tvhich brightened this time, so dark to France, the 
Brigade contributed materially. At the battle of Al- 
manza (13th March, 1707), several Irish regiments 
served under Berwick. In the early part of the day 
the Portuguese and Spanish auxiliaries of England 
were broken, but the English and Dutch fought suc- 
cessfully for a long time ; nor was it till repeatedly 
charged by the elite of Berwick's army, including 
the Irish, that they were forced to retreat : 3,000 
killed, 10,000 prisoners, and 120 standards attested 
the magnitude of the victory. It put King Philip on 
the throne of Spain. In the siege of Barcelona, Dil- 
lon's regiment fought with great effect. In their 
ranks was a boy of twelve years old ; he was the son 
of a Gal way gentleman, Mr. Lally, or O'Lally, of Tul- 
loch na Daly, and his uncle had sat in James's par- 
liament of 1689. This boy, so early trained, was 
afterwards the famous Count Lally de Tollendal, 
whose services in every part of the globe make his 
execution a stain upon the honor as well as upon the 
justice of Louis XVI. And when Villars swept off 
lie whole of Albemarle's battalions at Denain, in 
1712, the Irish were in his van. 

The treaty of Utrecht, and the dismissal of Marl- 
borough put an end to the war in Flanders, but still 



many of the Irish continued to serve in Italy and 
Germany, and thus fought at Parma, Guastalla, and 
Philipsburg. In the next war their great and pecu 
liar achievement was at the battle of Fontenoy. 

Louis in person had laid siege to Tournay ; Marshal 
Saxe was the actual commander, and had under him 
79,000 men. The Duke of Cumberland advanced at 
the head of 55,000 men, chiefly English and Dutch, 
to relieve the town. At the duke's approach, Saxe 
and the King advanced a few miles from Tournay 
with 45,000 men, leaving 18,000 to continue the 
siege, and 6,000 to guard the Scheld. Saxe posted 
his army along a range of slopes thus : his centre was 
on the village of Fontenoy, his left stretched off 
through the wood of Barri, his right reached to the 
town of St. Antoine, close to the Scheld. He fortified 
his right and centre by the villages of Fontenoy and 
St. Antoine, and redoubts near them. His extreme 
left was also strengthened by a redoubt in the wood 
of Barri, but his left centre, between the wood and 
the village of Fontenoy, waB not guarded by any 
thing save slight lines. Cumberland had the Dutch, 
under Waldeck, on his left, and twice they attempted 
to carry St. Antoine, but were repelled with heavy 
loss. The same fate attended the English in the 
centre, who thrice forced their way to Fontenoy, buf 
returned fewer and sadder men. Ingoldsby was 
then ordered to attack the wood of Barri with Cum- 
berland's right. He did so, and broke into the wood, 
when the artillery of the redoubt suddenly opened 
on him, which, assisted by a constant fire from the 
French tirailleurs (light infantry), drove him back. 

The duke resolved to make one great and final 
effort. He selected his best regiments, veteran Eng- 
lish corps, and formed them into a single column 
of 6,000 men. At its head were six cannon, and as 
many more on the flanks, which did good service. 
Lord John Hay commanded this great mass. 

Every thing being now ready, the column advanced 
Blowly and evenly, as if on the parade-ground. It 
mounted the slope of Saxe's position, and pressed on 
between the woods of Barri and the village of Fonte- 
noy. In doing so, it was exposed to a cruel fire of 
artillery and sharp-shooters ; but it stood the storm, 
and got behind Fontenoy. The moment the object 
of the column was seen, the French troops were 
hurried in upon them. The cavalry charged ; but 
the English hardly paused to offer the raised bayonet, 
and then poured in a fatal fire. They disdained to rush 
at the picked infantry of France. On they went till 
within a short distance, and then threw in their balls 
with great precision, the officers actually laying their 
canes along the muskets, to make the men fire low 
Mass after mass of infantry was broken, and on went 
the column, reduced, but still apparently invincible. 
Due Richelieu had four cannon hurried to the front, 
and he literally battered the head of the column, 
while the hoiisehold cavalry surrounded them, and, 
in repeated charges, wore down their strength, but 
these French were fearful sufferers. Louis was about 
to leave the field. In this juncture Saxe ordered up 
his last reserve — the Irish Brigade. It consisted, that 
day, of the regiments of Clare, Lally, Dillon, Berwick, 



Roth, and Buckley, with Fitzjaines's horse, O'Brien. 
Lord Clare was in command. Aided by the French 
regiments of Normandy and Vaisseany, they were or- 
dered to charge upon the flank of the English with 
fixed bayonets, without firing. Upon the approach 
of this splendid body of men, the English were 
halted on the slope of a hill, and up that slope the 
Brigade rushed rapidly and in fine order. "They 
were led to immediate action, and the stimulating 
cry of 'Cuimhnigidh ar Luimneac agus ar ffieiie na 
Sacsanach' 1 was re-echoed from man to man. The 
fortune of the field was no longer doubtful, and 
victory the most decisive crowned the arms of 
France." 

The English were weary with a long day's fight- 
ing, cut up by cannon, charge, and musketry, and 
dispirited by the appearance of the Brigade — fresh, 
and consisting of young men in high spirits and 
discipline — still they gave their fire well and fatally : 
but they were literally stunned by the shout and 
shattered by the Irish charge. They broke before 
the Irish bayonets, and tumbled down the far side 



1 " Remember Limerick and British filth." 



of the hill, disorganized, hopeless, and falling by 
hundreds. The Irish troops did not pursue them 
far : the French cavalry and light troops pressed on 
till the relics of the column were succored by some 
English cavalry, and got within the batteries of their 
camp. The victory was bloody and complete. Louis 
is said to have ridden down to the Irish bivouac, and 
personally thanked them ; and George II., on hi-aring 
it, uttered that memorable imprecation on the Penal 
Code, " Cursed be the laws which deprived me of 
such subjects." The one English volley, and the 
short struggle on the crest of the hill, cost the Irish 
dear. One-fourth of the officers, including Colonel 
Dillon, were killed, and one-third of the men. 

Their history, after Fontenoy.may be easily given] 
In 1747 they carried the village of Laufeld, after 
three attacks, in which another Colonel Dillon. 130 
other officers, and 1,600 men were killed ; and in 
1751 they were at Maestricht. Lally's regiment 
served in India, and the other regiments in Germany, 
during the war from 1756 to 1762 ; and during the 
American war, they fought in the French West India 
Islands. 

At this time they were greatly reduced, and at the 
Revolution completely broken up. 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN, 



THE RECLUSE OP INCHIDONT. 



(Ir will be at once seen that these Poems have all been written 
long before the passing of the Relief Bill. To none more than to 
the writer could the pleasing prospects opened up by the enact- 
ment of this healing measure be more truly or sincerely gratifying. 
To behold the unworthy fetters of a noble and gallant nation riven, 
her energies unbound, her centuries of strife and disunion termi- 
nated, and the day of her liberation and repose arrived, was a 
consummation which, though devoutly desired, was scarcely to be 
looked for in his generation ; and were these Poems to be now re- 
written, doubtless the tone of sorrow and despondency which per- 
haps too much pervades them would give place to one more 
cheerful and congenial to the altered circumstances of Ireland. 

In the east, as well as in the west, of Europe, the prospect is 
equally cheering. While Ireland has been unsealing and purging 
her long-abusod vision, the cause of freedom has not stood still in 
« country too much akin to her in fate and misrule. Greece has 
happily shaken off her iron bondage; her independence may now 
be considered as achieved, and the shout of Freedom once more 
be heard on the mountains of Hellas— in the pass of Thermopylae. 
This is a pleasing state of things ; but how shall we speak of tj'ose 
degenerate nations of the south, of Naples and of the PeniDBnla? 
They have permitted the young hope of their freedom to be stran- 
gled in its cradle, and submitted their necks to a yoke as baneful 
ftnd contemptible as ever bowed down a people. In thesa conn- 
tries, the tide of liberty was setting in with impetuous strength 
when these Poems were written. That it has been partially 
checked, he must lament; but that it must eventually prevail, 
need admit of little fear or question.) 

Once more I'm free — the city's din is gone, 
And with it wasted days and weary nights ; 
But bitter thoughts will sometimes rush upon 
The heart that ever loved its sounds or sights. 
To you I fly, lone glens and mountain heights, 
From all I hate and much I love — no more 
Than this I seGk, amid your calm delights, 
To learn my spirit's weakness to deplore, 
To strive against one vice, and gain one virtue 
more. 

How firm are our resolves, how weak our 

strife ! 
We seldom man ourselves enough to brave 
The syren tones that o'er the sea of life 
Breathe dangerously sweet from Pleasure's 



False are the lights she kindles o'er the wave. 
Man knows her beacon's fatal gleam nor flies, 
But as the bird which flight alone could save 
Still loves the serpent's fascinating eyes, 
Man seeks that dangerous light, and in the en- 
joyment dies. 

But even when Pleasure's cup the brightest 

glow'd, 
And to her revel loudest was the call, 
I felt her palace was not my abode, 
I fear'd the handwriting upon the wall, 
And said, amidst my blindness and my thrall, 
Could I, as he of Nazareth did do, 
But grasp the pillars of her dazzling hall 
And feel again the strength that once I knew, 
I'd crumble her proud dome, though I should 

perish too. 

Is it existence, 'mid the giddy throng 
Of those who live but o'er the midnight bowl, 
To revel in the dance, the laugh, the song, 
And all that chains to earth the immortal 

soul — 
To breathe the tainted air of day; that roll 
In one dark round of vice — to hear the cries 
Indignant virtue lifts to Glory's goal, 
When with unfetter'd pinion she would rise 
To deeds that laugh at death and live beyond 

the skies ? 

Not such at least should be the poet's life, 
Heaven to his soul a nobler impulse gave : 
His be the dwelling where there is no strife, 
Save the wild conflict of the wind and wave ■ 
His be the music of the ocean cave, 
When gentle waves, forgetful of their wai, 



THE POEMS OF J. J. (JALLANAN. 



Its rugged breast with whispering fondness 

lave ; 
And as he gazes on the evening star, 
His heart will heave with joys the world can 

never mar. 



O Nature, what art thou that thus canst pour 
Such tides of holy feeling round the heart? — 
Tn all thy various works at every hour. 
How sweet the transport which thy charms 

impart! 
But sweetest to the pensive soul thou art, 
In this calm time to man in mercy given, 
When the dark mists of Passion leave the 

heart, 
And the free soul, her earthly fetters riven, 
Spreads her aspiring wing and seeks her native 

heaven. 

There is a bitterness in man's reproach, 
Even when his voice is mildest, and we deem 
That on our heaven-born freedom they en- 
croach, 
And with their frailties are not what they 

seem ; 
But the soft tones in star, in flower, or stream, 
Over the unresisting bosom gently flow, 
Like whispers which some spirit, in a dream, 
Brings from her heaven to him she loved 
below, 
To chide and win his heart, from earth, and sin, 



Who, that e'er wander'd in the calm blue 

night, 
To see the moon upon some silent lake, 
And as it trembled to her kiss of light, 
Heard low soft sounds from its glad waters 

break — 
Who that look'd upward to some mountain 

peak, 
That rose disdaining earth — or o'er the sea 
Sent eye, sent thought in vain its bounds to 

seek — 
Who thus could gaze, nor wish his soul might 

be 
Like those great works of God, sublime and pure 

and free ? 

Do I still see them, love them, live at last 
Alone with nature here to walk unseen ! 
To look upon the storms that I have pass'd, 
And think of what I might be or have been? 



To read my life's dark page ? — beauteoui 

queen, 
That won my boyish heart and made me be 
Thy inspiration's child — if on this green 
And sea-girt hill I feel my spirit free, 
Next to yon ocean's God, the praise be aH 

thee. 

Spirit of Song ! since first I wooed thy smile, 
How many a sorrow hath this bosom known, 
How many false ones did its truth beguile, 
From thee and nature ! While around it strown 
Lay shatter'd hopes and feelings, thou alone 
Above my path of darkness brightly rose, 
Yielding thy light when other light was gone : 
Oh, be thou still the soother of my woes, 
'Till the low voice of Death shall call me to re- 
pose. 

I've seen the friend whose faith I thought was 

proved, 
Like one he knew not, pass me heedless by ; 
I've marked the coldness of the maid I loved, 
And felt the chill of her once beaming eye; 
The bier of fond ones has received my sigh : 
Yet I am not abandon'd, if among 
The chosen few whose names can never die, 
Thy smile shall light me life's dark waste 

along, 
No friend but this wild lyre — no heritage but 

song. 

'Tis a delightful calm ! there is no sound, 
Save the low murmur of the distant rill ; 
A voice from heaven is breathing all around, 
Bidding the earth and restless man be still ; - 
Soft sleeps the moon on Inchidony's' hill ; 
And on the shore the shining ripples break 
Gently and whisperingly at Nature's will, 
Like some fair child that on its mother's 
cheek 
Sinks fondly to repose in kisses pure and meek 

'Tis sweet, when earth and heaven such si- 
lence keep, 

With pensive step to gain some headland's 
height, 

And look across the wide extended deep, . 

To where its farthest waters sleep in light ; 

Or gaze upon those orbs so fair and bright, 

Stiil burning on in heaven's unbounded space, 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



553 



Like Seraphs bending o'eT life's dreary night, 
And with their look of love, their smile of 
peace, 
Wooing the weary soul to her high resting- 
place. 

Such was the hour the harp of Judah pour'd 
Those strains no lyre of earth had ever rung, 
When to the God his trembling soul adored 
O'er the rapt chords the minstrel monarch 

hung. 
Such was the time when Jeremiah sung 
With more than Angel's grief the sceptre torn 
From, Israel's land, the desolate streets among: 
Ruin gave back his cry 'till cheerless morn, 
" Keturn thee to thy God, Jerusalem, return." 



loved 



thee 



Fair moon, 1 too 

still, 
Though life to me hath been a chequered scene 
Since first with boyhood's bound I climb'd 

the hill 
To see the dark wave catch the silvery sheen ; 
' Or when I sported on my native green 

With many an innocent heart beneath thy 

ray, 
Careless of what might come or what had 

been, — 
"When passions slept and virtue's holy ray 
Shed its unsullied light round childhood's lovely 



Yes, I have loved thee, and while others spent 
This hour of heaven above the midnight 

bowl, 
Oft to the lonely beach my steps were bent, 
That I might gaze on thee without control, 
That I might watch the white clouds round 

thee roll 
Their drapery of heaven thy smiles to veil, 
As if too pure for man, 'till o'er my soul 
Came that sweet sadness none can e'er reveal, 
But passion'd bosoms know, for they alone can 

feel. 

Oh that I were once more what I was then, 
With soul uusullied and with heart unsear'd, 
Before I mingled with the herd of men 
In whom all trace of man had disappear'd ; 
Before the calm pure morning star that 
cheer'd 



And sweetly lured me on to virtue's shrine 
Was clouded — or the cold green turf was 

rear'd 
Above the hearts that warmly beat to mine ! 
Could I be that once more, I need not now re- 



What form is that in yonder anchor'd bark, 
Pacing the lonely deck, when all beside 
Are hush'd in sleep ? — though undefined and 

dark, 
His bearing speaks him one of birth and pride. 
Now he leans o'er the vessel's landward side. 
This way his eye is turn'd — Hush, did I hear 
A voice as if some loved one just had died ? 
'Tis from yon ship that wail comes on mine 

ear, 
And now o'er ocean's sleep it floats distinct and 

clear. 



On Cleada's' hill the moon is bright, 
Dark Avondu 4 still rolls in light, 
All changeless is that mountain's head, 
That river still seeks ocean's bed, 
The calm bine waters of Loch Lene 
Still kiss their own sweet isles of green, 
But where's the heart as firm and true 
As hill, or lake, or Avondu ? 

It may not — be the firmest heart 
From all it loves must often part, 



i Oleada and Cahlrbearoa (the Mil of the four gaps) form part 
of the chain of mountains which stretches westward from Mill- 
street to Klllarney. 

3 Avondu, the Blackwater (Avunduff of Spenser). There are 
several rivers of this name in the counties of Cork and Kerry, but 
the one here mentioned is by far the most considerable. It rises 
in a boggy mountain called Meenganine, in the latter county, and 
discharges itself into the sea at Toughal. For the length of its 
course and the beauty and variety of scenery through which it 
lows, it is superior I believe to any river in Monster. It is sub- 
ject to very high floods, and from its great rapidity and the havoe 
which it commits on those occasions, sweeping before it corn, 
cattle, and sometimes even cottages, one may not inaptly apply to 
it what Virgil says of a more celebrated river: 

Proluit insario contorqnens vortice silvas, 
Eex fluviorum Eridanus. 
Spenser thus beautifully characterizes some of our principal 
Irish rivers, though he has made a mistake with regard 1o tba 
Alio; it is the Blackwater that passes through Sliav-logher 
There was the Lime rolling down the lea, 

The sandy Siane, the stony Au-brian, 
The spacious Shenan, spreading like a sea, 

The pleasant Foyne, the fishy, fruitful Ban, 
Sweet AwnidufiF, which of the Englishman 
I-s called Blackwater, and the Liflar deep, 
Sad Trowis, that once his people overran, 
Strong Alio tumbling from Slew-logher steep, 
And Mull»raine whose waves I whilom taught to weep. 



554 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



A look, a word will quench the flame 
That time or fate could never tame ; 
And there are feelings proud and high 
That through all changes cannot die, 
That strive with love, and conquer too : 
I knew them all by Avondu ! 

How cross and wayward still is fate 
I've learn'd at last, but learn'd too late. 
I never spoke of love, 'twere vain — 
I knew it, still I dragg'd my chain : 
I had not, never had a hope, 
But who 'gainst passion's tide can cope ? 
Headlong it swept this bosom through, 
And left it waste by Avondu. 

Avondu, I wish I were 

Ab once upon that mountain bare, 
Where thy young waters laugh and shine 
On the wild breast of Meenganine ! 

1 wish I were by CHeada's hill, 
Or by Glenluachra's rushy rill ! 
But no ! I never more shall view 
Those scenes I loved by Avondu. 

Farewell, ye soft and purple streaks 
Of evening on the beauteous Reeks !' 
Farewell, ye mists that loved to ride 
On Cahir-bearna's stormy side! 
Farewell November's moaning breeze, 
Wild Minstrel of the dying trees ! 
Clara ! a fond farewell to you — 
No more we meet by Avondu. 

No more — but thou, O glorious hill, 
Lift to the moon thy forehead still ; 
Flow on, flow on, thou dark swift river 
Upon thy free wild course forever ; 
Exuit, young hearts, in lifetime's spring, 
And taste the joys pure love can bring ; 
But, wanderer, go— they're not for you ! 
Farewell, farewell, sweet Avondu. 

To-morrow's breeze shall swell the sail 
That bears me far from Innisfail, 
But, lady, when some happier youth 
Shall see thy worth and know thy truth, 
Some lover of thy native land 
Shall woo thy heart and win thy hand, 
Oh think of him who loved the'e too, 
And loved in vain my Avondu. 



> Maogillacuddy's Reeks, in the neighborhood of F 
the highest mountains in Munster. For a deseript 
and of the celebrated hikes of that place, see Weld's : 
Uj the best and ino.-.t correct work on ttie subject. 



n of these, 
illarney, by 



One hour, my bark and I shall be 

All friendless on the unbounded sea. 

No voice to cheer me but the wave 

And winds that through the cordage rave, 

No star of hope to light me home, 

No track but ocean's trackless foam. — 

'Tis sad — no matter, all is gone — 

Ho ! there, my lads, weigh quick, and on ! 

Stranger, thy lay is sad : I too have felt 
That which for worlds I would not feel again. 
At beauty's shrine devoutly have I knelt, 
And sigh'd my prayer of love, but sigh'd in 

vain. 
Yet 'twas not coldness, falsehood, or disdain 
That crush'd my hopes and cast me far away, 
Like shatter'd bark upon a stormy main ; 
'Twas pride, the heritage of sin and clay, 
Which darkens all that's bright in young Love's 
sunny day. 
'Tis past — I've conquer'd, and my bonds are 

broke, 
Though in the conflict well-nigh broke my 

heart. 
Man cannot tear him from so sweet a yoke 
Without deep wounds that long will bleed ana 

smart. 
Loved one but lost one ! — yes, to me thou art 
As some fair vision of a dream now flown, 
A wayward fate hath made us meet and part, 
Yet have we parted nobly ; be mine own 
The grief that e'er we met — that e'er 1 live alone I 
But man was born for suffering, and to bear 
Even pain is better than a dull repose. 
'Tis noble to subdue the rising tear, 
'Tis glorious to outlive the heart's sick throes. 
Man is most man amidst the heaviest woes, 
And strongest when least human aid is given; 
The stout bark flounders when the tempeet 

blows, 
The mountain oak is by the lightning riven, 
But what can crush the mind that lives alone 

with Heaven ? 

Deep in the solitude of his own heart 

With his own thoughts he'll hold communion 

high, 
Though with his fortune's ebb false friends de- 
part 
And leave him on life's desert shore to lie. 
Though all forsake him and the world belie — 
The world, that fiend of scandal, stiitL-, and 
crime — 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



555 



.Yet has he that which cannot change or die, 
His spirit still, through fortune, fate, and time, 
Lives like an Alpine peak, lone, stainless, and 
sublime. 

Well spoke the Moralist, who said, " The more 
I mix'd with men the less a man I grew :" 
Who can behold their follies nor deplore 
The many days he prodigally threw 
Upon their sickening vanities ! Ye few 
In whom I sought for men, nor sought in vain, 
Proud without pride, in friendship firm and 

true, 
Oh that some far-off island of the main 
Held you and him you love ! The wish is but a 
pain. 

My wishes are all such — no joy is mine, 
Save thus to stray my native wilds among, 
On some lone hill an idle verse to twine 
Whene'er my spirit feels the gusts of song. 
They come but fitfully, nor linger long, 
And this sad harp ne'er yields a tone of pride ; 
Its voice ne'er pour'd the battle-tide along 
Since freedom sunk beneath the Saxon's stride, 
And by the assassin's steel the gray-hair'd Des- 
mond' died. 

Ye deathless stories and immortal songs, 
That live triumphant o'er the waste of time, 
To whose inspiring breath alone belongs 
To bid man's spirit walk on earth sublime, 
Know his own worth, and nerve his heart to 

climb 

The mountain steeps of glory and of fame — 

How vainly would my cold and feeble rhyme 

Burst the deep slumber, or light up the shame, 

Of men who still are slaves amid your voice of 



1 Gerald, Earl of Desmond. The vast estate of this nobleman 
la Desmond (South Munster) was the cauBe of his ruin. It held 
ont to his enemies too strong a temptation to be resisted, and the 
chief governors of Ireland determined to seize upon it by any 
moans. Without having committed any overt act of high trea- 
son, or done any thing inconsistent with the duty and peaceful 
demeanor of a subject (unless some private quarrels with the rival 
house of Ormond could be construed into such), he was declared 
a traitor, and driven, in his own defence, into a rebellion which, 
by letters expressive of his unshaken loyalty to her majesty, and 
by every possiblo means, lie endeavored to avoid. After having 
undergone incredible hardships and privations, he was surprised 
by night in a cabin near Tralee, by one Kelly of Morierta and 
twenty-flve of his kerns employed for the purpose by Orinond. 
Kelly struck off his head, which was sent to the Queen, by whose 
order it was impaled on London bridge. For this barbarous mur- 
der of a helpless and persecuted old man, Kelly received a pension 
of forty pounds a year, but was afterwards hanged at Tybnrn. 



Yet, outcast of the nations — lost one, yet 
How can I look on thee nor try to save, 
Or in thy degradation all forget 
That 'twas thy breast that nursed me, though 

a slave ? 
Still do I love thee for the life you gave, 
Still shall this harp be heard above thy sleep, 
Free as the wind and fearless as the wave : 
Perhaps in after days thou yet mayst leap 
At strains unheeded now, when I lie cold andi 



Sad one of Desmond, could this feeble hand 
But teach thee tones of freedom and of fire, 
Such as were heard o'er Hellas' glorious land, 
From the high Lesbian harp or Chian lyre, 
Thou shouldst not wake to sorrow, but aspire 
To themes like theirs : but yonder see, where 

hurl'd 
The crescent prostrate lies — the clouds retire 
From freedom's heaven — the cross is wide un- 

furl'd ; 
There breaks again that light — the beacon of 

the World ! 

Is it a dream that mocks thy cheerless doom! 
Or hast thou heard, fair Greece, her voice at 

last, 
And brightly bursting from thy mouldering 

tomb, 
Hast thou thy shroud of ages from thee cast f 
High swelling in Cantabria's mouutain blast, 
And Lusitanian hills, that summons rung 
Like the Archangel's voice ; and as it pass'd, 
Quick from their death-sleep many a nation 
sprung 
With hearts by freedom fired and hands for free- 
dom strung. 



! 'tis a lovely soul-entrancing sight 
To see thy sons careering o'er that wave, 
Which erst in Salamis' immortal fight 
Bore their proud galleys 'gainst the Persian 

slave : 
Each billow then that was a tyrant's grave 
Now bounds exulting round their gallant way 
Joyous to feel once more the free, the brave, 
High lifted on their breast, as on that day 
When Hellas' shout peal'd high along her con- 
quering bay. 

Nursling of freedom, from her mountain ness 
She early taught thine eagle wing to soar 



55G 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



With eye undazzled and with fearless breast 
To heights of glory never reach'd before. 
Far on the cliff of time, all grand and hoar, 
Proud of her charge, thy lofty deeds she rears 
With her own deathless trophies blazoned o'er, 
As mind-marks for the gaze of after-years — 
Vainly they journey on — no match for thee ap- 
pears. 

But be not thine, fair land, the dastard strife 
Of yon degenerate race. Along their plains 
They heard that call — they started into life, 
They felt their limbs a moment free from 

chains : 
The foe came on : — but shall the minstrel's 

strains 
Be sullied by the story ? Hush, my lyre, 
Leave them amidst the desolate waste that 

reigns 
Round tyranny's dark march of lava-fire — 
Leave them amid their shame — their bondage, 

to expire. 

Oh, be not thine such strife — there heaves no 

sod 
Along thy fields but hides a hero's head ; 
And when you charge for freedom and for God, 
Then — then be mindful of the mighty dead! 
Think that your field of battle is the bed 
Where slumber hearts that never fear'd afoe; 
Arid while you feel at each electric tread 
Their spirit through your veins indignant glow, 
Strong be your sabre's sway for Freedom's venge- 
ful blow. 

Oh ! sprung from those who by Eurotas dwelt, 
Have ye forgot their deeds on yonder plain, 
When, pouring through the pass, the Persian 

felt 
The band of Sparta was not there in vain — 
Have ye forgot how o'er the glorious slain 
Greece bade her bard the immortal story write ? 
Oh ! if your bosoms one proud thought retain 
Of those who perish'd in that deathless fight, 
Awake, like them be free, or sleep with names as 
bright. 

Relics of heroes, from your glorious bed, 
Amid your broken slumbers, do you feel 
The rush of war loud thundering o'er your 

head? 
Hear ye the sound of Hellas' charging steel, 
Hear ye the victor cry — The Moslem reel ! 



On, Greeks, for freedom, on — they fly, they fly I 
Heavens! how the aged mountains know that 

peal, 
Through all their echoing tops, while grand and 

high 
Thermopyla's deep voice gives back the proud 

reply ! 

Oh for the pen of him whose bursting tear 
Of childhood told his fame in after-days ; 
Oh for that Bard to Greece and freedom dear, 
The Bard of Lesbos with his kindling lays, 
To hymn, regenerate land, thy lofty praise, 
Thy brave unaided strife — to tell the shame 
Of Europe's freest sons, who 'mid the rays 
Through time's far vista blazing from thy name, 
Caught no ennobling glow from that immortal 
flame! 



Not even the deeds of him who late afar 
Shook the astonish'd nations with his might, 
Not even the deeds of her whose wings of war 
Wide o'er the ocean stretch their victor flight — 
Not they shall rise with half the unbroken light 
Above the waves of time, fair Greece, as thine ; 
Earth never yet produced in Heaven's high 

sight. 
Through all her climates, offerings so divine 
As thy proud sons have paid at Freedom's sacred 

shrine. 

Ye isles of beauty, from your dwelling blue, 
Lift up to Heaven that shout unheard too 

long ; 
Ye mountains, steep'd in gle-y's distant hue, 
If with you lives the memory of that song 
Which freedom taught you, the proud strain 

prolong, 
Echo each name that in her cause hath died, 
'Till grateful Greece enrol them with the 

throng 
Of her illustrious sons, who on the tide 
Of her immortal verse eternally shall glide. 

And be not his forgot, the ocean-bard, 
Whose heart and harp in Freedom's causa 

were strung. 
For Greece self-exiled, seeking no reward, 
Tyrtseus of his time, for Greece he sung : 
For her on Moslem spears his breast he flung. 
Many bright names in Hellas met renown, 
But brighter ne'er in song or story rung 






THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



Than his, who late for freedom laid him down, 
And with the Minstrel's wreath entwined her 
martyr's crown. 

That Minstrel sings no more ! from yon sad isles 
A voice of wail was heard along the deep : 
Britannia caught the sound amid her smiles, 
Forgot her triumph songs and tuin'd to weep. 
Vainly her grief is pour'd above his sleep, 
He fee'ls it, hears it not! the pealing roar 
Of the deep thunder, and the tempest's sweep 
That call'd his spirit up so oft before, 
May shout to him in vain ! their Minstrel wakes 
no more. 

That moment heard ye the despairing shriek 
Of Missolonghi's daughters ? did ye hear 
That cry from all the islands of the Greek, 
And the wild yell of Suli's mountaineer? 
The Illyrian starting dropp'd his forward spear, 
The fierce Chimariot leant upon his gun, 
From his stern eye of battle dropp'd the tear 
For him who died that Freedom might be won 
For Greece and all her race. 'Tis gain'd, but he 
is gone. 

Too short he dwelt amongst us, and too long: 
Where is the bard of earth will now aspire 
To soar so high upon the wing of song? 
Who shall inherit now his soul of fire, 
His spirit's dazzling light ? Vain man, retire, 
'Mid the wild heath of Albyn's loneliest glen ; 
Leave to the winds that now forsaken lyre, 
Until some angel-bard come down again 
And wake once more those strains, too high, too 
sweet for men. 

The sun still sets along Morea's hill, 

The moon still rises o'er Cithseron's height; 

But where is he, the bard whose matchless 

skill 
Gave fresher beauty to their march of light ? 
The blue ^Egean, o'er whose waters bright 
Was pour'd so oft the enchantment of his 

strain, 
Seeks him ; and through the wet and starless 

night 
The Peaks-of-thunder flash and shout in vain, 
For him who sung their strength — he ne'er shall 

sing again. 

What though, descended from a lofty line, 
Earth's highest honors waited his command, 



And bright his father's coronet did shine 
Around his brow ; he scorn'd to take his stand 
With those whose names must die — a nobler 

band, 
A deathless fame his ardent bosom fired, 
From Glory's mount he saw the promised land 
To which his anxious spirit long aspired, 
And then in Freedom's arms exulting he expired. 

You who delight to censure feeble man, 
Wrapt in self-love to your own failings blind, 
Presume not with your narrow view to scan 
The aberrations of a mighty mind. 
His course was not the path of human-kind, 
His destinies below were not the same : 
With passions headlong as the tempest-wind, 
His spirit wasted in its own strong flame : 
A wandering star of heaven, he's gone from 
whence he came. 

But while the sun looks down upon those isles 
That laugh in beauty o'er the ^Egean deep, 
Long as the moon shall shed her placid smiles 
Upon the fields where Freedom's children 

sleep — 
Long as the bolt of heaven, the tempest's 

sweep, 
With Rhodope or Atbos war shall wage, 
And its triumphant sway the Cross shall keep 
Above the Crescent, even from age to age 
Shall Byron's name shine bright on Hellas' death- 
less page. 

Bard of my boyhood's love, farewell to thee ; 
I little deem'd that e'er my feeble lay 
Should wait thy doom — these eyes so soon 

should see 
The clouding of thy spirit's glorious ray. 
Fountain of beauty, on life's desert way 
Too soon thy voice is hush'd — thy waters 

dried : 
Eagle of song, too short thy pinion's sway 
Career'd in its high element of pride. 
Weep ! blue-eyed Albyn, weep ! with him thy 

glory died ! 

Oh i could my lyre, this inexperienced hand, 
Like that high master-bard thy spirit sway, 
Not such weak tributes should its touch com- 
mand — 
Immortal as the theme should be thy lay. 
But meeter honors loftier harps shall pay, 



THE POEMS 0¥ J. J. CALLANAN. 



' 



The harps of freeborn men : enough for me, 
K as I journey on life's weary way. 
Mourner, I rest awhile to weep with thee, 
O'er him who loved our land, whose voice would 
make her free. 

My country, must I still behold thy tears 
And watch the sorrows of thy long dark 

eight ? 
No sound of joy thy desolation cheers, 
Thine eyes have look'd in vain for freedom's 

light. 
Then set thy sun and wither'd all thy might, 
When first you stoop'd beneath the Saxon 

yoke, 
And thy high harp, that call'd to freedom's 

fight, 
Since then forgot the strains that once it woke, 
And like the Banshee's cry of death alone hath 

spoke. 

Is this the Atlantic that before me rolls 
In its eternal freedom round thy shore ? 
Hath its grand march no moral yet for souls ? 
Is there no sound of glory in its roar? 
Must man alone be abject evermore ? 
Slave ! hast thou ever gazed upon that sea? 
When the strong wind its wrathful billows 

bore 
'Gainst earth, did not their mission seem to be, 
To lash thee into life, and teach thee to be free? 

But no ! thine heart is broke, thine arm is 

weak, 
Who thus could see God's image not to sigh ; 
Famine hath plough'd his journeys on thy 

cheek, 
Despair hath made her dwelling in thine eye ; 
The lordly Churchman rides unheeding by, 
He fattens on the sweat that dries thy brain, 
The very dogs that in his kennel lie 
Hold revels to thy fare ! but don't complain, 
Tie has the cure of souls — the law doth so ordain. 

But you're not all abandon'd ; there are some 
Whose tender bowels groan to see your case. 
Rejoice, rejoice, the men of bibles come, 
There's pity beaming in their meek mild face. 
Come, starve no longer now, poor famish'd 

race, 
A bellyful from heaven shall now be thine, 
Open your mouths and chew the words of 

grace ; — 



There — is not that rent, clothes, and meat nnr] 

wine? 
Thanks to the Lord's beloved — I wonder do 

they dine. 

Oh, ye who loved them faithfully and long, 
Even when the fagot blazed the sword did 

rave, 
In sorrow's night who bid their hearts be 

strong, 
And died defending the high truths ye gave — 
Ye dwellers of the mountain and the cave, 
If lay of mine survive the waste of time, 
Your praises shall be hymn'd on land and 

wave, 
Till Christ's young soldiers in each distant 

clime 
Shall guard the Cross like you, and tread your 

march sublime. 

Ye watchers on the eternal city's walls, 
Ye warders of Jerusalem's high towers, 
When have your nights been spent in luxury's 

halls, 
Or your youth's strength consumed in pleasure's 

bowers ? 
Earth's gardens have for you no fruits, no 

flowers — 
Your path is one of thorns — the world may 

frown 
And hate you, but whene'er its war-cloud 

lowers, 
Stand to your arms again, nor lay them down 
Till the high Chief you serve shall call you to 

your crown. 

Could England's sons but see what I have seen, 
Your wretched fare when home at night you 

go. 
Your cot of mud, where never sound has been 
But groans of famine, of disease, and woe, 
Your naked children shivering in the snow, 
The wet cold straw on which your limbs re- 
cline, — 
Saw they but these, their wealth they would 

forego, 
To know you still retain'd one spark divine, 
To hear your mountain shout and see your charg- 
ing line. 

England 1 thou freest, noblest of the world, 
Oh, may the minstrel never live to see 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



Against thy sons the flag of green unfurl'd, 
Or his own land thus aim at liberty ; 
May their sole rivalry forever be 
Such as the Gallic despot dearly knew, 
When English hearts and Irish chivalry 
1 Strove who should first be where the eagle 
flew, 
And high their conquering shout arose o'er 
Waterloo. 



But 



inds will round their caverns 



sweep 
Until they burst them — then the hills will 

quake. 
The lava-rivers will for ages sleep, 
But nations tremble when in wrath they wake. 
Erin has hearts by mountain, glen, and lake, 
That wrongs or favors never can forget ; 
If loved they'll die for you, but trampled, break 
At last their long dark silence : you have met 
Their steel in foreign field — they've hands can 

wield it yet. 

Too loog on such dark themes my song hath 

run: 
Eugenio, 'tis meet it now should end. 
It was no lay of gladness, but 'tis done, — 
I bid farewell to it and thee, my friend. 
I do not hope that the cold world will lend 
To sad and selfish rhymes a patient ear : 
Enough for me, if while I darkly bend 
O'er my own troubled thoughts, one heart is 
nea.r 
That feels my joy or grief, with sympathy sin- 
cere. 

I have not suffer'd more than worthier men, 
Nor of my share of ill do I complain ; 
But other hearts will find some refuge, when 
Above them lower the gathering clouds of 

pain. 
The world has vanities, and man is vain — 
The world has pleasures, and to these they fly. 
I too have tried them, but they left a stain 



Upon my heart, and as their tide roll'd by, 
The cares I sought to drown, emerged with 
sterner eye. 

Thou hast not often seen my clouded brow : 
The tear I strove with, thou hast never seen, — 
The load of life that did my spirit bow 
Was hid beneath a calm or mirthful mien. 
The wild-flower's blossom, and the dew-drops 



Will fling their light and beauty o'er the spot 

Where, in its cold dark chamber all unseen, 

The water trickles through the lonely grot, 

And weeps itself to stone, — such long hath been 

my lot. 

It matters not what was, or is the cause, 
I wish not even thy faithful breast to know 
The grief which magnet-like my spirit draws 
True to itself above life's waves of woe. 
The gleams of happiness I feel below, 
Awhile may play around me and depart, 
Like sunlight on the eternal hills of snow, 
It gilds their brow but never warms their 

heart. 
Such cold and cheerless beam doth joy to me 

impart. 

The night is spent, our task is ended now. 
See, yonder steals the green and yellow light, 
The lady of the morning lifts her brow 
Gleaming through dews of heaven, all pure 

and bright, 
The calm waves heave with tremulous delight, 
The far Seven-Heads' through mists of pur- 
ple smile, 
The lark ascends from Inchidony's height : 
'Tis morning — sweet one of my native Isle, 
Wild voice of Desmond, hush — go rest thee for 
awhile. 



1 Seven Heads — Dundeedy, Dunowen, Dunore, Duneene, Dnn- 
oowlg, Dunworly, and Dimgorly. On all tl 
Irish had formerly dnns, or castles. 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



ACCESSION OP GEORGE THE FOURTH. 



On Albion's cliffs the sun is bright, 

And still Saint George's sea : 
O'er her blue hills' emerging height 
Hover soft clouds ot silvery light, 

As in expectancy ; 
The barks that seek the sister shore 
Fly gallantly the breeze before, 

Like messengers of joy, 
And light is every bosom's bound, 
And the bright eyes that glance around 

Sparkle with transport high. 
Hark ! the cannon's thundering voice 
Bids every British heart rejoice, 

Upon this glorious day. 
Slowly the lengthen'd files advance 
Mid trumpet swell and war-horse prance, 
While sabre's sheen and glittering lance 

Blaze in the noontide ray ; 
Streamer and flag from each mast-head 
On the glad breeze their foldings fling ; 
The bells their merry peals ring out, 
And kerchiefs wave an* banners flout, 
And joyous thousands loudly shout, 

Huzza for George our King ! 



'Tis night — calm night, and all around 
The listening ear can catch no sound. 
The shouts that with departing day 
Less frequent burst, have died away : 
The moon slow mounts the cloudless sk"? 
With modest brow and pensive eye, — 
Thames owns her presence with delight 
And trembles to her kiss of night; 
Far down along his course serene 
The liquid flash of oars is seen, 
Advancing on with measured sweep, — 
Lovely to view is the time they keep : 
And hark ! the voice of melody 
Comes o'er the waters joyously ; 
It is from that returning boat 
Those sweet sounds of triumph float, 
And nearer as she glides along 
Mingling with music swells the song. 



Britannia, exult on thy throne of blue waters, 
In the midst of thine Islands, thou queen of the 

sea; 
And loud be the hymn of thy faii-bosom'd 

daughters 
To hail the high chief of the brave and the free. 

While o'er the subject deep 

Proudly your navies sweep, 
Tars of old England still shout o'er the main, 

'Till the green depths of ocean ring, 

God save great George our King, 
Honor and glory and length to his reign ! 



Hush'd be your war-song, ye sons of the moun- 
tain, 
Pibroch of Donald Dhu, mute be thy voice, 
Wizzard that slept by Saint Fillan's gray foun- 
tain, 
With loyalty's rapture bid Scotia rejoice; 

Then to your stayless spear 

Albyn's brave mountaineer, 
Should foeman awake your wild slogan again, 

And loud o'er the battle sing, 

God save great George our King, 
Honor and glory and length to his reign ! 

Strike thy wild harp, yon green Isle of the ocean, 
And light as thy mirth be the sound of its strain, 
And welcome, with Erin's own burst of emotion, 
The Prince that shall loose the last links of thy 
chain ; 

And like the joyous cry 

Hellas' sons raised on high, 
When they stood like their fathers all frea OS 
the plain, 

Up the glad chorus fling, 

God save great George our King, 
Honor and glory and length to his reign I 

Chief of the mighty and the free, 
Thy joyous Britain welcomes thee, 









THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



Her longing eyes hav<e watch'd afar 

The mounting of thy promised star. 

Beneath its influence benign 

Long may she kneel at Freedom's shrine. 

Its rising o'er St. George's main 

Ierne hails with glad acclaim. 

Dear as to Hellas' weary few 

Their own blue wave roll'd full in view, 

Such Erin's song of Jubilee, 

And such her hopes, O Prince, from thee ;— 

From thee, for thy young steps have stray'd 
In converse with the Athenian maid, 
Listen'd to Virtue's high reward 
As taught by sage or sung by bard, 
Smiled at Anacreon's sportive lyre, 
Or glow'd at Pindar's strain of fire, 
Or heard the flood of Freedom roll'd 
From lips that now, alas ! are cold — 
Forever cold in that dark tomb 
Where Britain mourns her Fox's doom. 
Nurtured with these, by these refined, 
She watch'd with joy thy opening mind. 
Young as thou wert, she then could see 
That Erin's wail was dear to thee, 
And look'd with transport to the day 
Would yield the sceptre to thy sway. 



'Tis done — on yonder deathless field 
Ambition closed her bloody game, 
Bent darkly o'er her shatter'd shield 

And dropp'd her tear of flame. 
Europe beheld with glisteniBg eye 

Her wrong avenged — her fetters riven ; 
And peace and mercy from on high, 

Diffused once more the gifts of Heaven. 
With Britain's genius hand in hand, 
Long may they wait on thy command, 
Long to our vows may they remain 
To bless, Prince, thy prosperous reign, 
And waft Britannia's halcyon day 
To every land that owns thy sway. 

Yes, even to those stranger-lands 
Where Niger rolls through burning sands ; 
Where fragrant spirits ever sigh 
On the fresh breeze of Yemen's sky ; 
Or where indulgent nature smiles 
On her Pelew or Friendly Isles, 
Commerce and peace shall waft thy fame 
And teach the world their George's name. 



In yon fair land of sunny skies 
Where Brahma hears her children's sighs, 
And Avarice with her demon crew 
Drains to the life the meek Gentoo, 
Justice no more shall plead in vain, 
Bui point to thine avenging reign. 

Ganges now no more shall hear, 

As on he rolls his sacred water, 
The clash of arms — the shout of fear 

Redden no more with kindred slaughter ; 
The Hindoo maid shall fearless stray 

At eve his peaceful banks along, 
And dance to Scotia's sprightly lay 

Or weep at Erin's plaintive song, 
Or sit amid Acacia bowers 

That hang their cooling shade above her,. 
And as she twines the fairest flowers 

To deck the brows of her young lover, 
She'll think from whence these pleasures 

came, 
Look to the west and bless thy name. 

Far o'er the wave where Erin draws 
The sword in Heaven's best, holiest cause, 
And sees her green flag proudly sail 
Aloft on Chili's mountain gale. 
When swells her harp with freedom's sound, 
And freedom's bowl goes circling round, 
Then shall the cup be crown'd to thee, 
Sparkling with smiles of liberty. 

The glorious task, O Prince, be thine 
To guard thy Britain's sacred shrine, 
To watch o'er Freedom's vestal fire, 
Call forth the spirit of the lyre, 
Bid worth and genius honord be, 
Unbind the slave, defend the free, 
And bring again o'er ocean's foam 
The wandering Pargiot to his home. 
Children of Pargar, are ye gone — 
Children of Freedom, shall her song 
Echo no more your cliffs among ? 
Shall barbarous Moslem rites profane 
The shrines that bow'd to Issa's name ? 
To guard your shores from despot's tread, 
Was it in vain your fathers bled, 
Till every rock and every wave 
Around them was a Pargiot's grave f 
Oh ! that their sons should ever roam 
O'er ocean's waste to seek a home ! 



mmm 



m 



-562 THE POEMS OF 


J. J. CALLANAN. 


Oh ! that the dwelling of the free — 


Sons of the mighty and the wise, 


Parga ! that thou shouldst sullied be 


Sons of the Greeks, awake ! — arise ! 


By tread of Moslem tyranny ! 


By all your wrongs, bv all your shame, 


>0 Greece ! thou ever honor'd name, 


By Freedom's self, that blessed name, 


Even in thy bondage and thy shame 


Think of the fields your fathers fought, 


Fondly around each youthful mind 


Think of the rights they dying bought — 


By all thy classic ties entwined, 


Hark ! hark ! they call you from their skies. 


How shall this lay address the free, 


Sons of the mighty, wake — arise ! 


Nor turn aside, sweet land, to thee, 


And oh, my country, shall there be 


Mother of Arts and Liberty ? 


From these wild chords no prayer for thee ? 


From thy bright pages first I drew 


Land of the minstrel's holiest dream, 


That soul that makes me part of you; 


Land of young beauty's brightest beam, 


There caught that spark of heavenly fire, 


The fearless heart, the open hand, 


If such e'er warms the minstrel's lyre, 


My own — my dear — my native land ! 


■If e'er it breathes one waking tone 




•O'er Freedom's slumbers — 'tis thine own. 


And can the noble and the wise 




A nation's rightful prayer despise ; 




Can they who boast of being free 


Oh ! after bondage dark and long, 


Refuse that blessed boast to thee ? 


CouLd I but hear young Freedom's song, 


See yonder aged warrior brave, 


Aud scatter'd see the Moslem's pride 


Whose blood has been on sward and wave, 


Before thy battle's whelming tide, 


Is he refused his valor's meed 


• On that red field I'd gladly lie— 


Because he loves his father's creed ? 


My requiem thy conquering cry. 


Or is there in that creed alone, 


i Heavens! 'mid the sons of godlike sires 


What Valor, Genius, should disown ; 


Ts there no soul whom Freedom fires? 


To its fond votary is there given 


And is the lyre of Lesbos hung 


Less of the mounting flame of Heaven J 


iln slavery's hall, unswept, unstrung ? 


When his young hand essays the lyre, 


ds every glorious relic lost 


Oh ! can he wake no tone of fire ? 


Of that immortal patriot's ashes, 


Does war's stern aspect blanch his cheek- 


That, on the winds of freedom tost 


Does foeman find his arm more weak, 


Where Salamis' blue billow dashes, 


His eye less bright ? Oh, let them say 


Floated all burning from their pile, 


Who saw the sabre's fearful sway 


And slept on continent and isle, 


Cleave its red path through many a fray ; 


As if to fire with that embrace 


Who saw his minstrel banner waving 


His native land and all her race ? 


Where, war's wild din was wildest raving, 


It cannot be — there yet remain 


And heard afar the onset cry 


Some sparks of that high spirit's flame 


Of hearts that know to win, or die ' 


Oh, wake them with thy kindling breath, 




Oh, call a nation back from death ! 


Oh, Britain, had we never known 


Yes, capti\*s ! yes, at his command, 


The kindling breath of Freedom's zone ; 


Methinks I see Britannia stand, 


Or vanquish'd, had we still remain'd 


Where stood and died the Spartan band, 


In slavery's deepest dungeon chain'd, 


Where, rising o'er Thermopylae, 


Without one ray of Freedom's sun 


Thessalia's mountains view the sea, 


To wake our sighs for glories gone, 


Sparkling with all its sunny isles — 


Such cheerless thraldom we might bear 


Oh, how can slavery wear such smiles ? — 


With the dark meekness of despair : 


And Marathon's, Piataea's plain, 


But the chain'd eagle, when he sees 


And Thebes, w'hose heroes died in vain, 


His mates upon the mountain breeze, 


To each immortal scene about 


And marks their free wing upward soar 


The Queen of ocean sends her shout, 


To heights his own oft reach'd before, 


While hill and plain aud isle around 


Again that kindred clime he seeks — 


Answer to Freedom's long-lost sound. 


Bold bird, 'tis vain, thy wild heart breaks! 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



O monarch ! by a, monarch's name, 
By the high line from which yoti came, 
By that to each proud spirit dear, 
The lofty name that dies not here 



With life's short day, but round thi 
Breathes Immortality's perfume, 
By Royalty's protecting hand, 
Look on my dear, my native land. 



RESTORATION OF THE SPOILS OF ATHENS. 



Raise, Athens, raise thy loftiest tone, 
Eastward the tempest cloud hath blown ; 
Vengeance hung darkly on its wing : 
It burst in ruin ; — Athens, ring 
Thy loudest peal of triumphing; 
Persia is fallen : in smouldering heaps 
Her grand, her stately city sleeps. 
Above her towers exulting high, 
Susa has heard the victor's cry ; 
And Ecbatana, nurse of pride, 
Tells where her best, her bravest died. 
Persia is sad, — her virgins' sighs 
Through all her thousand States arise. 
Along Arbela's purple plain 
Shrieks the wild wail above the slain ; 
Long, long shall Persia curse the day 
When, at the voice of despot sway, 
Her millions marcli'd o'er Helle's wave 
To chain — vain boast — the free, the brave. 
Raise, Athens, raise thy triumph song ! 
Yet, louder yet, the peal prolong ! 
Avenged at length our slaughter'd sires ; 
Avenged the waste of Persian fires; 
And these dear relics of the brave, 
Torn from their shrines by Satrap slave, 
The spoils of Persia's haughty king, 
Again are thine — ring, Athens, ring I 

Oh ! Liberty, delightful name, 
The land that once hath felt thy flame, 
That loved thy light, but wept its clouding, 
Oh ! who can tell her joy's dark shrouding? 
But if to cheer that night of sorrow 
Mem'ry a ray of thine should borrow, 
That on her tears and on her woes, 
Sheds one soft beam of sweet repose, 
Oh ! who can tell her bright revealing, 
Her deep — her holy thrills of feeling ! 

So Athens felt, as fix'd her gaze 
On her proud wealth of better days : 



'Twas not the Tripod's costly frame, 
Nor vase that told its artist's fame ; 
Nor veils high wrought with skill divine, 
That graced the old Minerva's shrine ; 
Nor marble bust where vigor breathed 
And beauty's living ringlets wreathed. 
Not these could wake that joyous tone, 
Those transports long unfelt — unknown— 
'Twas memory's vision robed in light, 
That rush'd upon her raptured sight, 
Warm from the fields where freedom strove 
Fresh with the wreaths that freedom wove : 
This bless'd her then, if that could be — 
If aught is blest that is not free. 

But did no voice exulting raise 
To that high Chief the song of praise, 
And did no peal of triumph ring 
For Macedon's victorious king, 
Who from the foe those spoils had won ; 
Was there no shout for Philip s son ? 
No — Monarch — no — what is thy name, 
What is thine high career of fame, 
From its first field of youthful pride 
Where Valor fail'd and Freedom died, 
Onward by mad ambition fired 
'Till Greece beneath its march expired! 
Let the base herd to whom thy gold 
Is dearer than the rights they soli, 
In secret, to their Lord and King, 
That foul unholy incense fling ; 
But let no slave exalt his voice 
Where hearts in glory's trance rejoice : 
Oh, breathe not now her tyrant's name 
Oh, wake not yet Athense's shame ! 
Would that the hour when Xerxes' ire 
Wrapt fair Athense's walls in fire, 
All, all had perish'd in the blaze, 
And that had been her last of days, — 
Gone down in that bright shroud of glory, 
The loveliest wreck in after story ! 



THE l'OEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



Or when her children, forced to roam — 

Freedom their stars, the \v;ives their home — 

Near Salamis' immortal isle, 

Would they had slept in victory's smile ; 

Or Cheronea's fatal day, 

While fronting slavery's dark array, 

Had seen them bravely, nobly die, 

Bosom on gushing bosom lie, 

Piling fair Freedom's breast-work high, 

Ere one Athenian sliould remain 

To languish life in captive chain, 

Or basely wield a freeman's sword 

Beneath a Macedonian lord ! 

Such then was Greece, — though conquer'd, 

chain'd, 
Some pride, some virtue, yet remain'd; 
And as the sun when down he glides 
Slowly behind the mountains' sides, 
Leaves in the cloud that robes the hill 
His own bright image burning still, 
Thus Freedom's lingering flushes shone 
O'er Greece, — though Freedom's self was gone. 

Snch then was Greece ! how fallen, how low! 
Yet great even then : what is she now! 
Who can her many woes deplore, 
Who shall her freedom's spoils restore ? 
Darkly above her slavery's night 
The crescent sheds its lurid light ; 



Upon her breaks no cheering ray, 

No beam of freedom's lovely day ; 

But there deep, shrouded in her doom, 

There now is Greece — a living tomb. 

Look at her sons, and seek in vain 

The indignant brow, the high disdain, 

With which the proud soul drags her chain; 

The living spark of latent fire 

That smoulders on, but can't expire, 

That bright beneath the loweriug lashes 

Will burst at times in angry flashes, 

Like Etna, fitful slumbers taking, 

To be but mightier in its waking. 

Spirits of those whose ashes sleep 

For freedom's cause in glory's bed ! 
Oh, do you sometimes come and weep 

That that is lost for which ye bled, 
That e'er barbarian flag should float 

O'er your own home, in victory's pride, 
That e're should ring barbarian shout 

Where Wisdom taught and Valor died? 
Oh for that minstrel's soul of fire 

That breathed, and Sparta's arm was strong I" 
Oh for some master of the lyre 

To wake again that kindling song ! 
And if, sweet land, aught lives of thee, 
What Hellas was she yet may be, 
Freedom, like her to Orpheus given, 
May visit yet her home — her heaven. 



THE REVENGE OF DONAL COMM. 



*Tls midnight, and November's gale 
Sweeps hoarsely down GlengaravV vale, 

1 The following beautiful description of Glengarav and the B»y 
of Bantry is taken from the Rev. Horace Townsend's Statistical 
Survey of the County of Cork : 

"The Bay of Bantry, from almost every point of view, exhibits 
one of the noblest prospects, on a scale of romantic magnitude, 
that imagination can well conceive. The extent of this great body 
of water, from the eastern extremity to the ocean, is about twenty- 
five miles; the breadth, including the islands, from six to eight 
It contains, besides some small, two very large inlands, differing 
extremely from each other in quality and appearance, but perfectly 
•uited to the respective purposes of their different situations. 
Bear Island, very high, rocky, and coarse, standing a little within 
the mouth of the bay, braves the fury of tbe western waves, and 
forms, by the shelter of its li.rge body, a most secure and spacious 
naven. Safe in its more retired situation, at the upper end of the 
bay. the Island of Whiddy presents a surface of gentle inequalities, 
covered by a soil of uncommon richness and fenility. The gran- 
deur of the scene in which this noble expanse of water bears so 
conspicuous a part is greatly enhanced by the rugged variety of 
he surrounding mountains, particularly those on tbe west side, 



Through the thick rain its fitful tone 
;Shrieks like a troubled spirit's moan, 

which far exceed the rest in altitude and boldness of form. 
Among these, Hungry-hill, riBing with a very steep ascent from- 
the water, raises his broad and majestic head, easily distinguish- 
able from a great distance, and far surpassing all tbe other moun- 
tains of this country in height and grandeur. The effect produced 
by such an assemblage of objects can hardly be conceived, and ia 
impossible to be described. The mind, filled and overborne by 
a prospect so various, so extended, so sublime, sinks beneath ita 
magnitude, and feeling the utter incapability of adequate expres- 
sion, rests upon the scene in silent and solemn admiration. The 
soul must be Insensible indeed which will not be moved by snob 
a contemplation to adore the God of nature, from wbom such 
mighty works proceed. Large as the ground of this groat picture 
is. it comes within the scope of human sight, a circumstance upon 
which the powerfulness of its impression materially depends. A. 
greater extension of the parts, by throwing them far from view, 
would diminish their effect, and a n-ductinn of their scale would 
lessen their grandeur. Much and justly as Killarney is celebrated 
for the beauty of Its scenes, no single view it affords can vie with 
this in sublimity of character and greatness of effect 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



565 



The Moon that from her cloud at eve 
Look'd down on Ocean's gentle heave, 
And bright on lake and mountain shone, 
Now wet and darkling journeys on ; 
From the veil'd heaven there breaks no ray 
To guide the traveller on his way, 
Save when the lightning gilds awhile 
The craggy peak of Sliav-na-goil, 
Or its far-streaming flashes fall . 
Upon Glengarav's mountain wall, 



" But the place most celebrated for combining the softer graces 
of the waving wood, with the wildest rndeness of mountain as- 
pect, is Giengariff (the rough glen), situated on the north side of 
the bay, at the head of a small harbor or cove. The hills that 
enclose this romantic glen rise in great variety of rooky forma, 
their sides and hollows being covered profusely with trees and 
shrubs, among which the arbutus, rarely found to adorn our native 
woods, appears in a nourishing state. Here, as at Killarney, 
nature seems to have been at wanton variance with herself, and 
after exciting a war between two rival powers, to have decided in 
favor of the weaker party. Among stones of an immense Bize, 
thrown together in the wildest confusion, and apparently forbid- 
ding the possibility of useful produce, among bare and massive 
rocks, that should seem destined to reign forever in barren deso- 
lation, ariBes a luxuriance of sylvan growth, which art would 
hardly hope for in the happiest situations. The extent of this 
woody region, winding through the mountains for some miles, is 
very considerable, l'ron was formerly smelted in this neighbor- 
hood, when timber was more abundant and less valuable. A- 
river, abounding with salmon and sea-trout, runs through this 
glen, in dry weather (as Johnson observes of a similar situation), 
'fretting over the asperities of a rooky bottom,' when swollen 
with rains, rolling a torrent of frightful magnitude into the bay. 
It is passed by a good stone bridge, attributed to Cromwell, and 
still bearing his name. 

"The last of nature's uncommon and astonishing displays that 
remains to be mentioned is the waterfall or cataract of Hungry- 
hill, in comparison with which O'Sullivan's Cascade at Killarney 
and the waterfall at Tower's-court, near Dublin, shrink into insig- 
nificance. The eye accustomed to the various wonders of Alpine 
scenery may doubtless viewthis stupendous fall with leas emotion, 
but what will the lowland inhabitant think of a river tumbled from 
the summit of a mountain elevated more than 2,000 feet above its 
base and almost perpendicular in its ascent. In the first part of 
its progress, the side of the hill is so steep as to suffer the water 
to fall from a vast height, unimpeded by the rocky projections 
which the spreading base of the mountain opposes to its descent 
in approaching the bottom. It thus assumes the double charac- 
ter of a fall and cataract. At the back of this great mountain are 
several lakes, one of which supplies the water of the fall. This 
grand and singular spectacle, often to be plainly distinguished 
from the town of Bantry, fourteen miles distant, appears in full 
majesty only after heavy falls of rain, sufficiently frequent in this 
district to give the inhabitants numerous opportunities of seeing 
it in all its glory." 

Thisis very clear and graphic; but it would be injustice to the 
reader to omit the following picture of Giengariff, by a gentleman, 
a resident of Bantry, whose fine poetical feeling and almost in- 
tuitive perception of the beautiful in natural scenery had happily 
fitted him for the task of describing this magnificent region, which 
he had undertaken In the ninth number of "Bolster's Maga- 

" After visiting some of the most picturesque parts of the south- 
western coast, we lingered a few days amid the enchanting wilds 
of Giengariff. We had the advantage of reviewing its wood- 
crowned steeps, gleaming under a cloudless Bky, in all the rich 
variety of tints which the fading glory of autumn left upon the 
frail but beautiful foliage. Less imposing in its mountain barriers 
than Killarney, and lesB enriched by the fanciful variety of spark- 
ling islands in its sea-views, the inland scenery exhibits a 
character equally magical and partakes as much of the seclusion, 
the loneliness, and the flowery wilds of fairy-land as any portion 



And kindles with its angry streak 

The rocky zone it may not break. 

At times is heard the distant roar 

Of billows warring 'gainst the shore ; 

And rushing from their native hills, 

The voices of a thousand rills 

Come shouting down the mountain's side, 

When the deep thunder's peal hath died. 

How fair at sunset to the view 

On its loved rock the Arbutus grew ! 



of the country on the borders of the lakes. The summer tourist 
who pays a hurried visit of a few hours to the Glen is by no 
means competent to pronounce an opinion upon its peculiar at- 
tractions. His eye may wander with delight over the startling 
irregularity of its hills and dales, but he has not time sufficient to 
explore the depths and recesses of its woodland solitude, in which 
the witching charms of this romantio region operate most forcibly 
on the mind. It is by treading its tangled pathways and wander- 
ing amid its secret dells that the charms of Giengariff become 
revealed in all their power. There the most fanciful and pic- 
turesque views spread around on every Bide. A twilight grove, 
terminating in a soft vale, whose vivid green appears as if it had 
been never violated by mortal foot ; a bower rich in the fragrant 
woodbine, intermingled with a variety of clasping evergreens 
drooping over a miniature lake of transparent brightness ; a lonely 
wild suddenly bursting on the sight, girded on all sides by grim 
aibd naked mountains; a variety of natural avenues, leading 
through the embowered wood to retreats in whose breathless 
solitude the very genius of meditation would appear to reside, or 
to golden glades, sonorous with the songs of a hundred foaming 
rills. But what appears chiefly to impress the mind in this se- 
cluded region is the deep conviction you feel that there is no 
dramatic effect in all you behold, no pleasing illusion of art; that 
it is nature you contemplate, snoh as she is in all her wildness and 
all her beauty. 

" The situation of Lord Bantry'B lodge is very picturesque ; the 
verdant swell on which it rises, and the tasteful arbors that sur- 
round it, appear in fine relief to the frowning hills in the rear. 
But although I consider what may be called the inland beauties 
of Giengariff the most striking and characteristic, I am far from 
depreciating its coast scenery. The view of Mr. White's castel- 
lated mansion and demesne from the water is very imposing. The 
architecture of the house, which corresponds with its situation, 
is In admirable keeping with the mountains In the background. 
The demesne is laid out in very good taste, exhibiting no violent 
triumph of art over nature, but that inimitable carelessness, that 
touching simplicity, which shows that she has not been subdued 
and conquered, but gently wooed and won. From a wooded 
steep on the old Berehaven road, to the norft of Cromwell's 
bridge, yon may command the most comprehensive view that Is 
afforded by any spot in the neighborhood of the Glen. 

" On the left, you have the entire woodland sweep of Giengariff 
stretching far to the south and east, and clothing many a hill in its 
imposing verdure, but disclosing most agreeable vistas, through 
which the mountain streams may be seen wildly rushing and 
sparkling in their course ; to the west, you have the lofty moun- 
tains of Berehaven, with their graceful outline terminated by the 
'waste of waters wild,' whilst Lord Bantry's demesne lies to the 
Bouth in dim perspective. The sunset over Goul and Hungry, the 
most prominent in the western chain of mountains, as seen from 
Giengariff, or any of the heights in the neighborhood of Bantry, 
is particularly grand. The waterfall, which takes a leap of some 
hundred feet from the crest of the former, can sometimes be plain- 
ly distinguished at a distance of twenty miles, with its illuminated 
iris. The white mists with which its brows are frequently 
wreathed give this mountain a peculiarly Boft and graceful char- 
acters On a few occasions, it has exhibited an aspect of transcend- 
ent glory, having its entire figure veiled in a transparent curtain 
of the rainbow tint As you may suppose, the majority of the 
mountains in the neighborhood of the Glen are crowned with 
lakes ; no less than S65 of these Alpine reservoirs are to be found 
on the summit of one of them." 



566 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



How motionless the heather laj 
In the deep gorge of that wild oay 1 
Through the tall forest not a breese 
Bisturb'd the silence of the trees ; 
O'er the calm scene their foliage red 
A venerable glory shed, 
And sad and sombre beauty gave 
To the wild hill and peaceful wave. 

To-morrow's early dawn will find 
That beauty Scatter'd on the wind ; 
To-morrow's sun will journey on 
And see the forest's glory gone — 
The Arbutus shiver'd on the rock 
Beneath the tempest's angry shock, 
The monarch Oak all scathed and riven 
By the red arrowy bolt of heaven ; 
While not a leaf remains behind, 
Save some lone mourner of its kind, 
Wither'd and drooping on its bough, 
Like him who treads that valley now. 

Alone he treads — still on the blast 

The sheeted rain is driving fast, 

And louder peals the thunder's crash, 

Louder the ocean's distant dash — 

Amid the elemental strife 

He walks as reckless, as if life 

Were but a debt he'd freely pay 

To the next flash that cross'd his way : 

Yet is there something in his air 

Of purpose firm that mocks despair; 

What that, and whither he would go 

Through storm and darkness, none may know ; 

But his unerring steps can tell, 

There's not a deer in that wild dell 

Can track its mazy depths so well. 

He gains the shore — his whistle shrill 
Is answer'd — ready at his will ; 
In a small cove his pinnace lay — 
" Weigh quick, my lads, I cross the bay." 
No question ask they, but a cheer 
Proclaims their bosoms know not fear. 
Sons of the mountain and the wave, 
They shrink not from a billowy grave. 
Those hearts have oft braved death before, 
'Mid Erin's rocks and Biscay's roar ; 
Each lightly holds the life he draws, 
If it but serve his Chieftain's cause ; 
And thinks his toil full well he pays, 
If he bestow one word of praise. 



At length they've clear'd the narrow bay — 

Up with the sails, away ! away ! 

O'er the broad surge she flies as fleet 

As on the tempest's wing the sleet, 

And fearless as the sea-bird's motion 

Across his own wild fields of ocean. 

Though winds may wave and seas o'erwhelm, 

There is a hand upon that helm 

That can control its trembling power, 

And quits it not in peril's hour ; 

Full frequently from sea to sky 

That Chieftain looks with anxious eye, 

But naught can be distinguish'd there 

More desperate than his heart's despair. 

On yonder shore what means that light 

That flings its murky flame through night? 

Along the margin of the ocean 

It moves with slow and measured motion. 

Another follows, and behind 

Are torches flickering in the wind. 

Hark ! heard you on the dying gale 

From yonder cliffs the voice of wail ? 

'Twas but the tempest's moaning sigh, 

Or the wild sea-bird's lonely cry. 

Hush! there again— I know it well. 

It is the sad TJlullaV swell, 

That mingles with the death-bell's toll 

Its grief for some departed soul. 

Inver-na-marc, s thy rugged shore 
Is alter'd since the days of yore, 
Where once ascending from the town 
A narrow path look'd fearful down, 



■ Though Byron has Wulwulla and Campbell Ollolla, I have no« 
heBltoted to use the word, as no one has a better claim to it than 
an Irishman. 

' J Inver-na-marc (the hay of ships), the old name for Bantry 
Bay. Inver (properly spelled In-mar) gives name to many places 
in Ireland ; it signifies a creek or bay. Inverary. Inverness, .fee, 
in Scotland, have the same origin. This bay is so large and well 
sheltered that all the ships in Europe might lie there in perfect 
security. In 16S9, there was a partial engagement here between 
the English fleet under Admiral Herbert and the French com- 
manded by Mons. Renault, in which the former had the worst of 
it, owing to a sreat part of the ships being unable to come into 
action. (See Wilson's Naval History.) The division of the French 
fleet which came to anchor here in the winter of 1796 never at- 
tempted a landing. A Bantry pilot, who ventured on board one 
of their ships and remained with them for a week, said that they 
spent the time in every species <>f amusement; their bands were 
continually playing, and they were very often seen from the shore 
dancing on deck. It is remarkable that it was in Irish they con- 
versed with this person. They questioned him about the state of 
the roads, which some of them appeared to know very well, and 
the disposition of the people. He was treated with the greatest 
kindness, and nothing but his having a family could have induced 
him to leave them. By this account, whioh we have hal lately 
verified in the Autobiography of Napper Tandy, there were ■ 
great number of Irishmen in the expedition 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



O'er the bleak cliffs which wildly gave 
Their rocky bosom to the wave. 
A beauteous and rtnrivall'd sweep 
Of beach extends along the deep ; 
Above is seen a sloping plain, 
I With princely house and fair domain, 
1 Where erst the deer from covert dark 
I Gazed wildly on the anchor'd bark, 

Or listen'd the deep copse among 
f To hear the Spanish' seaman's song 
I Come sweetly floating up the bay, 
I With the last purple gleam of day. — 
All changed, even yon projecting steep 
That darkly bends above the deep, 
And mantles with its joyless shade 
I The waste that man and time have made. 
There, 'mid its tall and circling wood, 
In olden times an abbey stood : 
It stands no more — no more at even 
The vesper hymn ascends to Heaven; 
No more the sound of Matin bell 
Calls forth each father from his cell, 
Or breaks upon the sleeping ear 
Of Leim-a-tagart's* mountaineer, 
And bids him on his purpose pause, 
Ere yet the foraying brand he draws. 

Where are they now ? Go climb that height, 
Whose depth of shade yields scanty light, 
Where the dark alders droop their head 
O'er Ard-na-mrahar's 3 countless dead, 



1 This place was formerly much frequented by the Spaniards. 
It carried on a very extensive trade in pilchards with Spain, Por- 
tugal, and Italy, but for these last seventy or eighty years not a 
pilchard has appeared on the coast. The following two instances, 
taken from " Smith's History of Cork," prove what an inexhaust- 
ible source of wealth and comfort the Irish fisheries would be if 
properly encouraged : 

"In 1749, Mr. Richard Mead, of Bantry, proved to the Dublin 
Society that he had in that year caught and cured 380,800 fish of 
different kinds, six score to the hundred; and in the preceding 
year, Mr. James Young, of the same place, caught and cured 
482, 500 herrings and 231 barrels of sprats.'" 

One year with another, fish is as plentiful on this coast as at the 
above period. 

3 Leim-a-tagart (the priest's leap) is a wild and dangerous moun- 
tain pass from Bantry into Kerry. The people dwelling about 
this spot have been from time immemorial noted creaoh drivers 
or forayers. They go by the name of Glannies, or the Glen boys, 
and so unsubdued, even at this day, is the spirit of their ancestors 
in them, that rather than lead an inactive life, they make frequent 
descents upon a clan of Lowlanders called Kohanes, or boys of 
the mist, not for the purpose of driving cattle, for that would not 
be quite so safe in these times, but for the mere pleasure of fight- 
ing, or to revenge some old affront. This gave rise to numerous 
conflicts, until very lately, when the unwearied and persevering 
exertions of the Kev. Mr. Barry, Parish Priest of Bantry, effected 
what the law might attempt in vain ; for these mountaineers, 
though not living exactly beyond the leap, come within the ap- 
plication of the proverbial saying, " beyond the Leap, beyond the 



And nettle tall and hemlock waves 
In rank luxuriance o'er the graves ; 
There fragments of the sculptured stone, 
Still sadly speak of grandeur gone, 
And point the spot, where dark and deep 
The fathers and their abbey sleep. 
That train hath reach'd the abbey ground, 
The flickering lights are ranged around, 

And resting on th« bier, 
Amid the attendants' broken sighs, 
And pall'd with black, the coffin lies ; 

The Monks are kneeling near. 
The abbot stands above the dead, 
With gray and venerable head, 

And sallow cheek and pale. 
The Miserere hymn ascends, 
And its deep solemn sadness blends 

With the hoarse and moaning gale. 
The last "Amen" was breathed by all, 
And now they had removed the pall, 

And up the coffiu rear'd ; 
When a stein " Hold !" was heard sloud; 
And wildly bursting through the crowd, 

A frantic form appear'd. 

He paused awhile and gasp'd for breath : 
His look had less of life than death, 

He seem'd as from the grave — 
So all unearthly was his tread ; 
And high above his stately head 

A sable plume did wave. 
Clansmen and fathers look'd aghast: 
But when the first surprise was past, 

Yet louder rose their grief; 
For when he stood above the dead, 
And took the bonnet from his head, 

All knew IveraV Chief; 
No length of time could e'er erase, 
Once seen, that Chieftain's form and face. 
Calmly he stood amid their gaze, 
While the red torches' shifting blaze, 
As strong it flicker'd in the breeze, 
That wildly raved among the trees, 
Its fitful light upon him threw, 
And Donal Comm stood full to view. 



3 Ard-na-mrahar (the brethren's, or monks', height), so callet 
from an abbey which once stood there. The " Hibernia Domini- 
cans," in its enumeration of the monasteries of Friars' Minora, 
thus speaks of it, " Bantry in agro Corcagienrl, Canobium fun- 
datum a Dermito O'Sullivan, circy A, 1460?" 

* Ivera— the barony of Bear. I-bera is the Irish word, the b 
having the sound of v. Smith thinks the place so called from the 
Iberi, a Spanish colony which settled originally in this quarter. 



568 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



His form was tall, but not the height 
Which seems unwieldy to the sight; 
His mantle, as it backward flow'd, 
An ample breadth of bosom show'd ; 
His sabre's girdle round his waist 
A golden buckle tightly braced : 
A close-set trews displav'd a frame 
You could not all distinctly name 
If it bad more of strength or grace ; 
But when tlie light fell on bis face, 
The dullest eye beheld a man 
Fit to be Chieftain of his clan. 

His cheek, though pale, retain'd the hue 
Which from Iberian blood it drew ; 
His sharp and well-form'd features bore 
Strong semblance to his sires of yore; 
Calm, grave, and dignified, bis eye 
Had an expression proud and high, 
And iu its darkness dwelt a flame 
Which not even grief like his could tame ; 
Above his bent brow's sad repose, 
A high heroic forehead rose, — 
But o'er its calm you mark'd the cloud 
That wrapp'd his spirit in its shroud; 
His clustering locks of sable hue, 
Upon ibe tempest wildly flew. 
Unreck'd by him the storm may blow ; 
His feelings are with her below. 

" Remove the lid," at length he cried. 

None stirr'd, they thought it strange; beside, 

Her kinsman mutter'd something — "Haste, 

I have not breath or time to waste 

In parley now — Ivera's chief 

May be permitted one, last, brief 

Farewell with her he loved, and then, 

Eva is yours and earth's again." 

At length, reluctant they obey'd : 

Slowly he turn'd aside his head. 

And press'd his hand against his brow — 

'lis done at last, he knows not how : 

But when he heard one piercing shriek, 

A deadlier paleness spread his cheek; 

Sidelong he look'd, and fearfully, 

Dreading the sight he yet would see ; 

Trembled his knees, his eye grew dim, 

His stricken brain began to swim; 

He stagger' d back against a yew 

That o'er the bier its branches threw; 

Upon his brows the dews of death 

Collected, and his quick low breath 

Seem'd but the last and feeble strife. 



Ere yet it yield, of parting life. 
There lay his bride— death hath not quite 
O'ershadow'd all her beauty's light; 
Still on her brow and on her cheek 
It linger'd, like the sun's last streak 
On Sliav-na-goila's head of snow 
When all the vales are dark below — 
Her lids in languid stillness lay 
Like lilies o'er a stream-parch 'd way, 
Which kiss no more the wave of light 
That flash'd beneath them purely bright; 
Above her forehead, fair and youDg, 
Her dark-brown tresses clustering hung, 
Like summer clouds, that still shine on 
When he who gilds their folds is gone. 
Her features breathed a sad sweet tone 
Caught ere the spirit left her throne, 
Like that the night-wind often makes 
When some forsaken lyre it wakes, 
And minds us of the master hand 
That once could all its voice command. 

" Cold be the hand, and curst the blow," 
Her kinsman cried, "that laid thee low ; — ■ 
Curst be the steel that pierced thy heart." 
Forth sprang that Chief with sudden start. 
Tore off the scarf that veil'd her breast — 
That dark deep wound can tell the rest. 
He gazed a moment, then his brand 
Flash'd out so sudden in his hand, 
His boldest clansman backward reel'd — 
Trembling, the aged abbot kneel'd. 
"Is this a time for grief," he cried, 
"And thou thus low, my murder'd bride! 
Fool ! to such boyish feeliugs bow, 
Far other task hath Donal now ; 
Hear me, ye thunder upon high ! 
And thou, bless'd ocean, hear my cry! 
Hear me ! sole resting friend, my sword, 
And thou, dark wound, attest my word ! 
No food, no rest shall Donal know, 
Until he lay thy murderer low — 
Until each sever'd quivering limb 
In its own lustful blood shall swim. 
When my heart gains this poor relief, 
Then, Eva, wilt thou bless thy chief. 
Bless him ! — no, no, that word is o'er, 
My sweet one! thou can'st bless no more; 
No more, returning from the strife 
Where Donal fought to guard thy life 
And free his native land, shalt thou 
Wipe the red war-drops from his brow, 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



And hush his toils and cares to rest 

Upon thy fond and faithful breast." 

He gazed a moment on her face, 

And stoop'd to take the last embrace, 

And as his lips to hers he prest, ' 

The coffin shook beneath his breast, 

That heaved convulsive as 'twould break ; 

Then in a tone subdued and meek, 

"Take her," he said, and calmly rose, 

And through the friends that round him close, 

Unheeding what their love would say, 

All silently he urged his way ; 

Then wildly rushing down the. steep 

He plunged amid the breaker's sweep. 

Awfully the thunder 

Is shouting through the night, 
And o'er the heaven convulsed and riven 

The lightning-streams are bright 
Beueath their fitful flashing, 

As from hill to hill they leap, 
In ridgy brightness dashing 

Conies on loud ocean's sweep. 

Fearfully the tempest 

Sings out his battle-song, 
His war is with the unflinching rocks 

And the forests tall and strong ; 
His war is with the stately bark; 

But ere the strife be o'er. 
Full many a pine, on land and brine^ 

Shall rise to heaven no more. 
The storm shall sink in slumber, 

The lightniug fold its wing, 
And the morning star shall gleam afar, 

In the beauty of its king ; 
But there are eyes shall sleep in death 

Before they meet its ray ; 
Avenger ! on thine errand speed, 

Haste, Donal, on thy way ! 
Carriganassig,' from thy walls 
No longer now the warder calls; 



1 The castle of Cariganass, situated upon the river Ouvane (the 
fair river), five miles from Bantry, was built by one of the O'Sul- 
llvans, who formerly possessed the entire of the country. It was 
a high structure, with four round flanking towers and a square 
court. In Queen Elizabeth's time, it was obstinately defended 
against the English forces by Daniel O'Sullivan, snrnamed Comm. 
In the " Pacata Hibc-rnia." its surrender is thus related : 

" Sir Charles (Wilmot), with the English regiments, overran all 
Beare and Bantry, destroying all they could find meet for the re- 
llefe of men, so as the countrey was entirely wasted. He sent 
also Captain Flemming, with his pinnace and certaine souldiers 
into O'Sullivan's Island; he tooke there certaine boats and an 
English barke, which O'Sullivan had gotten for his transportation 
Into Spaine, when he should be enforced thereunto ; they tooke 
also from thence certaine cows and sheepe, which were reserved 



No more is heard o'er goblets bright 
Thy shout of revelry at night ; 
No more the bugle's merry sound 
Wakes all thy mountain echoes round, 
When for the foray, or the chase, 
At morn rush'd forth thy hardy race 
And northward as it died away 
Boused the wild deer of Kaoim-an-e. 
All bare is now thy mountain's side, 
Where rose the forest's stately pride ; 
No solitary friend remains 
Of all that graced thy fair domains; 
But that dark stream still rushes on 
Beneath thy walls, the swift Ouvan, 
And kisses with its sorrowing wave 
The ruins which it could not save. 
Fair castle, I have stood at night, 
Wheu summer's moon gave all her light, 
And gazed upon thee till the past 
Came o'er my spirit sad and fast ; 
To think thy strength could not avail 
Against the Saxon's iron hail, 
And thou at length didst cease to be 
The shield of mountain liberty. 

From Carriganassig shone that night, 

Through storm and darkness, many a light, 

And loud and noisy was the din 

Of some high revelry within : 

At times was heard the warder's song, 

Upon the night-wind borne along, 

And frequent burst upon the ear 

The merry soldier's jovial cheer ; 

For their dark Chieftain in his hall 

That day held joyous festival. 

And show'd forth all his wealth and pride 

To welcome home his beauteous bride. 

Hush'd was the music's sprightly sound, 
The wine had ceased to sparkle round, 
And to their chambers, one by one, 
The drowsy revellers had gone ; 
Alone that Chieftain still remains, 
And still by starts the goblet drains : 



there as in a secure storehouse, and put 
that inhabited therein. The warders ol 
Carrikness. on the sixth of the same r 
master, O'Sullivan's returne, rendered b 
lives to the Queene's mercy, so that 
animum revertendi, he had neither p! 
might retire, nor corn nor cattle to feed 
hold or renew any wavre against the sti 
William O'Sullivan, Esq., had an id 
edifice of his ancestors, but its ruinous 
difficulties for the undertaking. The 
was formerly very thickly wooded, anc 



the churles to the sword 
the castles of Ardea and 
nonth. dispayring or their 
'Oth their castles and their 
although he should have 
ice of safetiewhereunto he 
himselfe, much less to up- 

ea of restoring this noble 
state presented too many 
entire country around it 
had plenty of red deer. 






570 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



He paced the hall with hurried tread, 
Oft look'd behind and shook his head, 
And paused and listen'd as the gale 
Swell'd on his ear with wilder wail ; 
And where the tapers faintly flung 
Their light, and where the anas hung, 
He'd start and look with fearful glance 
And quivering lip, then quick advance, 
And laugh in mockery of his fear, 
And drink again. 

" Fitz-Eustace ! here, 
Close well that door and sit awhile, 
Some foolish thoughts I would beguile. 
Fill to my bride ; and say, didst e'er 
See form so light or face so fair ? 
I little deem'd this savage land 
Such witching beauty could command ; 
That rebel Eriu's mountains wild 
Could nurse McCarthy's matchless child. 
Then drink with me in brimming flow 
The heiress of Clan-Donal-Rce." 1 
Fitz-Eustace quaff' d the cup, and said, 
" I saw no more — she's with the dead, 
You best know how." 

That Chieftain frown'd 
And dash'd the goblet to the ground : 
" Curse on thy tongue, that deed is past — 
But oue word more, and 'tis thy last : 
Art thou t' upbraid me, also doom'd ?" 
He paused awhile and then resumed — 

" Eustace, forgive me what I say, 

In sooth, I'm not myself to-day, 

Some demon haunts me, since my pride 

Urged me to stab that outlaw's bride : 

Each form I see, each sound I hear, 

Her dying threat assails my ear, 

Which warn'd me I should shortly feel 

The point of Donal's vengeful steel. 

I know that devil's desperate ire 

Would seek revenge through walls of fire. 

Even now, upon the bridal night, 

When bridegroom's heart beats ever. light, 

No joy within my bosom beams. 

Besides, yon silly maiden deems 

That 'twas through love I sought her hand. 

No, Eustace, 'twas her father's land : 

He hath retainers many a one 

Who with this wench to us are won. 

You know our cause, we still must aid 



i Carbery, once the property of 



As well by policy as blade. 

I loathe each one of Irish birth, 

As the vile worm that crawls the earth. 

But come — say, canst thou aught impart 

Could give some comfort to my heart ; 

Fell Donal Comm into our snare, 

Or does the wolf still keep his lair?" 

" Neither ; — the wolf now roams at large ; 
'Twas but last evening that a barge, 
Well mann'd, was seen at close of day 
To make Glengarav's lonely bay, 
'Tis said ; — but one who more can tell 
Now lodges in the eastern cell ; 
A monk, who loudly doth complain 
Of plunder driven and brethren slain 
By Donal Comm, and from the strife 
This night fled here with scarcely life." 

" Now dost thou lend my heart some cheer : 
Good Eustace, thou await me here; 
Til see him straight, and if he show 
Where I may find my deadly foe, 
That haunts my ways — the rebel's head 
Shall grace my walls." 

With cautious tread 
He reach'd the cell and gently drew 
The bolts, — that monk then met his view. 
Within that dungeon's furthest nook 
He lay ; — one hand contain'd a book, 
The other propp'd his weary head ; 
Some scanty straw supplied his bed; 
His order's habit coarse and gray 
Told he had worn it many a day, 
Threadbare and tiavel-soil'd ; his beads 
And cross hung o'er the dripping weeds, 
Whose ample folds were tightly braced 
By a rough cord around his waist : 
No wretch of earth seem'd lower than 
That outcast solitary man. 

He spoke not — moved not from the floor ; 
But calmly look'd to where the door 
Now closed behind th' intruding knight, 
Who slow advanced and held the light 
Close to the captive's pallid face, 
Who shrank not from his gaze : — a space 
St. Leger paused before he spoke, 
And thus at length his silence broke — 

" Father, thy lodging is but rude, 
Thou seem'st in need of rest and food, 
If but escaped from Donal's ire, 
And wasting brand and scathing fire ; 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



571 



But prudent reasons still demand, 
And stern St. Leger's strict command, 
That every stranger, friend or foe, 
Be held in durance 'till he show 
What, whence, and whither he would go. 
For thee, if thou canst tell us right 
Where that fierce outlaw strays to-night, 
To-morrow's sun shall see thee freed, 
With rich requital for thy meed ; 
If false thy tale — then, father, hope 
For a short shrift and shorter rope." 

He ceased, and as the Chief he eyed 

With searching glance, the monk replied - 

" I fear no threat, no meed I crave, 

I ask no freedom but the grave. 

There was a time when life was dear ; 

For, Saxon, though this garb I wear, 

This hand could once uplift the steel, 

This heart could love and friendship feel. 

That love is sever'd, friends are gone, 

And I am left on earth alone. 

Cursed be the hand that sear'd my heart, 

And smote me in the tenderest part, 

Laid waste my lands, and left me roam 

On the wide world without a home ! 

I took these weeds;— but why relate 

The spoiler's ravage and my hate? 

Vengeance I would not now forego 

For saints above or man below. 

Yes, Donal Coram ; — but let me hear, 

Fling the glad story to mine ear; 

How fell the outlaw's beauteous bride? 

Say, was it by thy hand she died? 

'Twill be some solace, and I swear 

By the all-saving sign I wear, 

Before to-morrow's sun to show 

To thine own eyes thy bitterest foe." 

" 'Tis well !" exclaim'd the exulting chief, 
" Have now thy wish, the tale is brief — 
Some few days since, as I pursued 
A stately stag from yonder wood, 
Straight northward did he bend his way, 
Through the wild pass of Kaoim-an-e; 
Then to tne west, with hoof of pride, 
He took the mountain's heathery side, 
And evening saw him safely sleep 
In far Glenrochty's forest deep. 
Returning from that weary chase, 
We met a strange and lonely place ; 



Dark-bosom'd in the hills around, 

From its dim silence rose no sound, 

Except the dreary dash and flow 

Of waters to the lake below. 

There was an island in that lake, — 

(What ai'ls thee, monk? why dost thou shake? 

Why blanch'd thy cheek ? )— from thence I 

brought 
A richer prey than that I sought ; 
It were but feeble praise to swear 
That she was more than heavenly fair ; 
I tore her from Finbarra's 1 shrine 
Amid her tears, and she was mine. 



' The lake of Gougaune Barra, i. e., the hollow or recess o( 
Saint Finn Barr, in the nigged territory of Ibh-Laoghaire (th« 
O'Leary's country), in the west of the county of Cork, ia the 
parent of the river Lee. It is rather of an irregular oblong form, 
running from northeast to southwest, and may cover about 
toventy acres of ground. Its waters embrace a small but verdant 
island, of about half an acre in extent, which approaches its 
eastern shore. The lake, as its name implies, is situate in a deep 
| hollow, surrounded on every side (save the 6ast, where its super- 
abundant waters are discharged) by vast aud almost perp<.-mii< ular 
mountains, whose dark inverted shadows are gloomily reflected 
in its waters beneath. The names of those mountains are Dereen 
(the little oak' wood), where not a tree now remains; Maolagh, 
which signifies a country, a region, a map, perhaps so called from 
the wide prospect which it affords; Nad an'uiUur, the Eagle's 
Nest, and Faottte na Gougmme, i. e., the Cliffs of Gougaune 
with its steep and frowniDg precipices, the home of a hundrea 
echoes. Between the bases of these mountains and the margin 
of the lake runs a narrow strip of land, which at the northeast 
affords a few patches for coarse meadow and tillage, which sup- 
port the little hamlet of Bosmlucha, i. e.. the lake inch. Two or 
three houses at this place in some sort redeem the solitude of the 

" As we approached the causeway leading to the island," says a. 
wriier in the eighth number of '" Bolster's Magazine," who de- 
scribes this place with great minuteness, " we passed a small 
stated lisliing lodge; beside it lay a skiff hauled up on the strand, 
and at a small distance, on a little green eminence, a few lowly 
mounds, without stone or inscription, point out the simple bury- 
ing-place of the district; their number, and the small extent of 
ground co.vered, gave at a glance the census and the condition of 
a thinly-peopled mountain country; and yet this unpretending 
spot is as effectually the burial-place of human hopes, and feelings, 
and passions; of feverish anxieties, of sorrows and agitations ; it 
affords ss saddening a field for contemplation, as if it covered the 
space and was decked out with all the cypresses, the willows, and 
the marbles of a Pere la Chaifte. It is a meet and fitting station ' 
for the penitentiary pilgrim, previous to his entry on his <]evoiiun-i 
within the island. Some broken walls mark the grave of a clergy- 
man of the name of O'Mahony, who, in the beginning of last cen- 
tury, closed a life of religious seclusion here. Consider-in- how 
revered is still his memory amongst these mountains, the shame- 
ful state of neglect in which we found his gravr astonished us. 
We sought in vain for the flag mentioned by Smith in his ' History 
of Cork, 1 from which he copied this inscription : 'Hoc sibi et suc- 
cessoribus suis in eadem vocation? oomumenhnn imposuit 
Lfominii* Doctor Di.nii^itta O'Jfohoiio. pobytcr licet uidig- 
■ii u* ,-' either it has been removed, or buried under the rubbish oi 
the place. 

" A rude artificial causeway led us into the holy island ; at the 
entrance stands a square, narrow, stone enclosure, flagged over- 
head. This encloses a portion of the water of the lake, which 
finds admission beneath. In the busy season of the pattern, this 
well is frequented by pressing crowds of men, women, and cows. 
The lame, the blind, the sick, and the sore, the barreD and un- 
profitable, the stout boccaugh of either gender repair to its heal- 
ing water, in the sure hope of not (retting rid of those lamentable 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



I woo'd her like a love-sick swain ; 
I threaten'd, — would have forced, — in vain ; 
She proudly scorn'd my fond embrace, 
She cursed my land and all its race, 



maims aud afflictions of person which form their best source of 

profit, and interest the charity of the peasantry. 

" We find the greater portion of the island covered by the ruins 
of the small chapel with its appurtenant cloisters, and a large 
square court containing eight cells arched over. This square 
face 1 * the causeway, from which a passage leads through an avenue 
of trees to a terrace about live feet in height, to which we ascended 
by a few steps. In the middle of the court, on a little mound, 
with an ascent on each side of four stone steps, stands the shat- 
tered and time-worn shaft of a wooden cross. The number of 
hair and hay tethers, halters, and span eels tie* round it prove that 
the cattle passed through the waters have done so to their advan- 
tage. This court is beautifully shaded with trees. Each side 
contains two circular cells, ten feet deep and eight feet high, by 
four broad. In two of these we found some poor women at their 
devotions, preparing to pass the night in watching and penitence, 
for which purpose they had lighted up fires within them, and on 
inquiry We found that the practice was quite common. 

"TV terrace leads by a few steps down to the chapel, which 
adjoins it at the north side. This little oratory, together with the 
buildings 1'i'longinc to it, are all in complete ruin ; they were built 
on the smallest scale, and with the rudest materials, solidity not 
appearing to have been at all looked to in the construction. They 
are evidently very ancient. How, in so remote and secluded a 
situation, the hand of the deseerator could have ever reached them 
I cannot conceive; but he has done his work well and pitilessly. 
Though here, we may reasonably presume, was none of the pride 
of the churchman, none of the world's wealth, nothing to tempt 
rapacity ; though In this retreat, sacred * to ever musing melan- 
choly.' dwelt none of the agitators of tho land, yet the hlind and 
reckless fury of the fanatic found its way through the wild and 
rocky land that encloses it, and carried his polemical rancor into 
the hut of the hermit. 

"The oratory runs east and west; the entrance is through a 
low, arched doorway in the eastern wall; the interior is about 
thirty-six feet long by fourteen broad, and the side walls by four 
feet high ; so that when roofed it must have been extremely low, 
beiiiL' at the highest, judging from the broken gables, about twelve 
feet, and then the entire lighted by the door and two small win- 
dows, one in each gable. The walls of the four small chambers 
adjoining are all of a similar height to those of the chapel. The 
entire extent is fifty-six feet in length, by thirty-six in breadth. 
One or two of these consist of extremely small cells ; so that when 
we consider their height, extent, and the light they enjoyed, we 
may easily calculate that the life of the successive anchorites who 
inhabited them was not one of much comfort or convenience, but 
much the reverse — of silence, gloom, and mortification. Man 
elsewhere loves to contend with, and, If possible, emulate nature 
in the greatness and majesty of her works ; but here, as if awed 
by the sublimity of surrounding objects, and ashamed of his own 
real littleness, the humble founder of this desecrated shrine con- 
structed it on a scale peculiarly pigmy and diminutive. 

"The buildings stand at the southeast side, and cover nearly 
half the island. The remainder, which is clothed with the most 
beautiful verdure, is thickly shaded to the water's edge by tall 
a^h-trees. Two circular furrows at the north side of the cloisters 
are pointed out as the sites of tents pitched here during the pat- 
tern, by the men of Bantry and their servants. 

" In this island the holy anchorite and bishop, 8t Finn Barr, 
who flourished, I conceive, contrary to the opinion of Ware, early 
in the sixth century, wishing to lead a life of pious retirement, 
found a situation beyond all others most suitable to his desire ; a 
retreat as impenetrable as the imagination could well conceive, 
ami seemingly designed by nature for the abode of some seques- 
tered anchorite, where, In undisturbed solitude, he might pour 
out his soul in prayer, and hold converse 'with nature's charms, 
and see her stores unrolled.' 8t Fin Barr, however, was reserved 
lor purposes more useful to society, and for a scene where the 
example of blB v'rtuous life might prove more extensively bone- 
oci.il He became the founder not only of tho cathedral but of 



And bade me hope for vengeance from 
The sure strong arm of Donal Comm. 
I stabb'd her ! — 'twas a deed of guilt, 
But "then 'twas Donal's blood I spilt." 



the oity of Cork, and labored successfully in the conversion or the 
people of the adjacent country. A long line of successive ancho- 
rites occupied his retreat at Gougaune, who, by their piety an 
virtues, rendered its name celebrated through the island, and a 
favorite pilgrimage and scene of devotion to the people. Tha 
last of these eremitical occupants was Father Denis O'Mahony, 
whose grave on the mainland I have Wore Bpofcen of. The suc- 
cession seems to have failed in him. He found this place a ruin 
and the times in which he lived were not calculated for its re- 
edification, and a ruin has it since continued. A large tombstone- 
shaped slab, which lies at the foot of a tree, contains, together 
with a short history of this hermitage, directions for the devotions 
of the penitent pilgrims ; but Dr. Murphy, the Catholic Bishop of 
Cork, and his clergy have so thoroughly discountenanced tho re- 
lijri"us visitations to this place, that its solitude stands little chance 
of much future interruption. 

"Old people remember with fond regret the time when Gon- 
gaune was inaccessible to horses and almost to man; when it was 
no small probationary exercise to pilgrim or palmer to overcome 
the difficulties of the way ; when the shores of tho lake, and even 
some portions of the surrounding mountains, now naked and 
barren, were a continued forest, which lent ita gloomy shade to 
deepen the natural solitude of the place. Rossalucha had then. 
no houses, and no clumsy whitewashed fishing-hut destroyed the 
effect of the surrounding solitude and scenery; but man, with his 
improvements, has even approached this desolate spot and famil- 
iarly squatted himself down beside its waters, cut down ita woods, 
emoothed its road, and given an air of society to its solitude, 

"The view from tho summit of Derreen, the highest point of 
the mountain-enclosure of the lake, is beautifully magnificent 
Though other mountains that I have seen may boast a prospect of 
greater extent, yet it is reserved for Derreen to take in a reach of 
mountain and of flood, of crag and elen, as wildly diversified, a? 
bold and as rugged as any over which the lofty Reeks may look 
down from his royal residence ; it is a splendid panoramic picture, 
of the grandest dimensions and outline. 

"From the Faoilte, on the preceding evening, we bad obtained 
a view of the high outline of the Killarney mountains to the 
northwest; but here now, from our superior height they arose 
before us in all their purple grandeur, visible almost from their 
basis in one long and splendid range from Clara to the lordly Reek- 
ach. To the southwest appeared, in the distant horizon, the 
trackless Atlantic, bounding the blue billy shores of Ivera ; and 
reaching inland, ibe fine estuary of Bantry, checkered with islets 
fair,' spread its still waters to meet the long brown valley which 
extends from the foot of Derreen, skirting Hungry-bill and Glen- 
gariff to the right Wbeeda, or Whiddy, Island appeared promi- 
nent in this calm and reposing picture; and near the head of the 
bay lay, bright and sparkling, the small mountain lake of Loch^x- 
derry-fadda, the lough of the long oaken wood — but the wood 
was gone; cultivated gardens and brown pastures covered its site. 
Before us lay the infant Lee, a long windiDg silver thread, stealing 
through sterile glens, until in the distance it reached the lakes of 
Inchageela, and spread itself along their rocky shores, brightening 
in the morning rays. Between the chain of lakes and the head of 
the Bay of Bantry lay three dark, disconnected, and cone-fisrured 
mountains: S?ie?ia, the furthest south, feeding at its base a blua 
lake, called Luch an bhric dearig, the loch of the red trout Oi 
cbarr; the other two mountains are, Douchil, i. <?., dark -wooded, 
and Doua\ a name which also occurs amongst the mountains of 
Wicklow. Beneath us, apparently at the mountain's foot, we could 
observe for a considerable distance a dark tortuous line, proceed- 
ing inwards from the course of the Lee, and resembling the ir- 
regular and fretted course of a small mountain stream. This waa 
the celebrated pass of Kaoim-an-eigh, i. e., the pass of deer, 
through which a good road winds now to Bantry. 

"We had heard so much of Kaim-an-eigb, that we were im- 
patient to see it and after having bade our long farewell to Derreen 
and Gougaune, we descended the steep side of the former. W« 
had arrived on the verge of a cliff, and on looking down, beheld 



• ; 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLaNAN. 



573 



That monk sprang forward from the bed, 
Flung back his cowl, and furious said, 
" Monster, behold my promise tree, 
'Tis Donal Comm himself you see." 
He started back with sudden cry, 
And raised the lantern. Oh, that eye 
And vengeful smile he knew too well; 
For him not all the fiends of hell, 
With tortures from their burning place, 
Had half the horrors of that face. 
One rush he made to gain the door — 
'Twas vain, that monk stood there before. 
He shouted loud, and sudden drew 
A dagger which lay hid from view ; 



the road winding at a great distance below, at the bottom of a 
narrow strait, the deepest, the most abrupt, and romantic imagin- 
able. To get on this road we found a matter of difficulty, from 
tbe great general steepness and abruptness of its deep overhanging 
sides, and it was after considerable time and exertion that we 
effected our descent from rock to crag, through thorn and tangled 
brier, grasping at times the long heath and furze and brambles, or 
holding tho dwarfy branches of the underwood, which grew 
abundantly in the interstices. 

"Nothing that ever I beheld in mountain scenery of glen, or 
dell, or defile, can at all equal the gloomy pas? in which we now 
found ourselves. The separation of the mountain ground at either 
side is only >ust sufficient to afford room for a road of moderate 
breadth, with a fretted channel at one side for the waters, which, 
in the winter season, rush down from the high places above, and 
meeting here, find a passage to pay a first tribute to the Lee. A 
romantic or creative imagination would here find a grand and ex- 
tensive field for the exercise of its powers. Every turn of the 
road brings us to some new appearance of the abrupt and shattered 
walls which at either side arise up darkling to a great height, and 
the mind is continually occupied with the quick succession and 
change of objects so interesting, resolving and comparing realities, 
sometimes giving form and substance to k airy nothings.' 

'The enthusiasm of my companions was unbounded as they 
slowly strided along, every faculty Intent on the scene before tfietn; 
their classic minds found ready associations everywhere; each 
crag and cliff renewed classical reminiscences, and 'infamei 
8copuW— i Alt(i > and ' IFemorosa? were flying out between them 
without intermission. They found no difficulty in fancying them- 
selves in Thermopylae's far-famed strait, and having decided on 
the resemblance, tbe location of the Polyandrium, or tomb of tho 
mighty Leonidas and his associate heroes, that grave 'whose 
dwellers shall be themes to verse forever, 1 was quickly settled, 
and so was the temple of Ceres Amphyctionls. The fountain 
where the Persian horseman found the advanced guard of the 
Spartans occupied in combing their hair was easily discovered in 
one of the placid pools of the trickling stream. The Phocian wall 
was also manifest; and to perfect the picture, they ascended again 
to the head of the pass, to catch another glimpse of the Maliac 
Gulf, as they called the Bay of Bantry. Time and space became 
annihilated before them, and a brace of thousand years were but 
as a day in' their imagination. Their eager eyes sought out and 
found everywhere monuments of the unforgotten brave of Greece, 
and all the burial-places of memory Bent forth their phantoms of 
the olden demigods to people the sceno. I confess, I could not 
see things in the same light The place reminded me of nearer 
times— our own classic middle ages— and of different people; their 
arches were gray ruins, keeps, and dungeons to me. I saw but 
'bristling walls,' battlemented courts, turrets, and embrazures, to 
which their perverted judgments gave other names. 



and Creaghadoir and Bonnoght, Kern and Gallowglass, Tory ami 



At Donal's breast one plunge he made : 

That watchful arm threw off the blade. 

But hark ! what noise comes from below, 

Surely that cry hath roused the foe. 

They come, they come, with hurrying tramp 

And clashing steel. The fallen lamp 

That mountaineer snatch'd from the ground, 

A moment glanced his prison round, 

Heaved quickly back a massy bar — 

A narrow doorway flew ajar, 

A moment cast the light's red glow 

Upon the flood, far, far below ; 

" No flight is there," St. Leger cried, 

"Thou'rt mine." "Now, now, my murder' d bride,' 



Eapparee, passed before me, sweeping the encumbered pass, driving 
their prey of lordly cattle down the deflle ; and loudly in my mind's 
ear rang the hostile shouts of the wild O'Sullivans and the 
CLearys, their fierce hurras and far ragJts and aboos mingling 
with the ringing of their swords and their Insty strokes on helm 
and shield. It is with associations of spoil, adventure, and daring — 
of chasing the red deer, the wolf, or the boar — with horn and 
hound — that this place is properly connected. To behold it with 
other eye than that of an Irish senachie is a deed less worthy, 
as.suwdly, than to drink, as my friend Kalstaff says. 

"I think I may say that at its entrance from the Gougaune 
side this pass is seen with best effect; there its high cliffs are 
steepest, and Che toppling crags assume their most picturesque 
forms and resemblances of piles and ancient ruins. Tht-se ivceive 
beauty and variety from the various mosses which encrust them, 
and the dwarf shrubs and underwood, ivy, and creeping plimts, 
which lend their mellow hues to soften and give effect to the 
whole The arbutus, a plant most indigenous to KiHarney and 
Glengariff (into the first of which places it has been pl.-msibly 
conjectured it had been brought from the continent by the monka 
who settled in the islands of its lakes), is not even uncommon 
among the rocks of Kaoim-an-eigh. We behold itself and the 
asfh and' other hardy plants and shrubs with wonder growing at 
immense heights overhead, tufting crags inaccessible to the human? 
foot, where we are astonished to think how they ever got there. 
The London pride grows here and on the surrounding mountains, 
as well as amongst Che ruins of Gougaune Basra, in most astonish- 
ing profusion. 1 have seen it in great abundance on Turk and 
Maugerton, near Killarney, but its plenty in the neighborhood of 
the Lee far exceeds all comparison. 

•'A number of lesser defiles, formed by many a headlong tor- 
rent or shelving cascade, shoot inward from the pass in deep and 
gloomy hollows, as you wind along, which greatly increase tho 
interest of the place; and these, forming at their entrance high 
round headlands, thickly covered with the most luxuriant clothing 
of long flowering heath, have at a distance the appearance of rich 
overhanging woods. As we proceeded, we found the channel of 
the stream which winds alongwith the road blocked up in varioui 
places with vast fragments of rock, rent in some violent convul- 
sion or tempest from the cliffs around, or hurled downward in 
wild sport by the presiding genius of the scene. Trophied evi- 
dences of his giant energies long choked up the now unencumbered 
defile, and told the history of his fierce pastime during the many 
ages that he continued its uninterrupted lord. But the roadmaker 
has successfully encroached upon its savage dominions, and crum- 
bled his ponderous masses, and smoothed down the difficulties 
which he had accumulated. The present diminished number of 
these vast fragments remain, however, as a sufficient record of the 
rocky chaos which Smith spoke of eighty years ago, and which 
long remained the astonishment of successive travellers." 

Dr. Smith's description of this place is far from being correct, 
and is too highly colored ; a person visiting tbe place after having 
read it would feel a little disappointed, though it is, in reality, a* 
may be seen from the above extracts, one of the wildest and moat 
romantic retreats that can well be imagined. 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



He answer'd, and with furious bound 
One arm had clasp'd his foeman round : 
A moment, with a giant's might, 
He shook him o'er that dmadfnl height; 
" Saxon ! 'tis Eva gives this grave," 
He said, and plunged him in the wave. 

One piercing shriek was heard, no more; 
Up flash'd the billow dyed with gore, 
When in they burst. Oh, where to fly ! 
He fix'd his foot and strain'd his eye, 
And o'er that deep and fearful tide 
Sprang safely to the farther side. 
Above they crowd in wild amaze, 
And by the hurrying torches' blaze 
They saw where fearlessly he stood, 
And down, far tost upon the flood, 
St. Leger's body : "Quick! to horse — 
Pursue the fieud with all your force, 
'Tis Dona! Comm." Light held he then 
Pursuit, while mountain, wood, and glen 
Before him lay. A moment's space 
He ran, and in th' appointed place 
His courser found. Then as his hand 
Drew from the copse his trusty brand, 
"Twas well I left thee here, my blade, 
That search my purpose had betray'd ; 
But here they come — now, now, ray steed, 
Son of the hills ! exert thy speed," 
He said, and on the moaning wind 
Heard their faint foot-tramp die behind. 

'Tis morniDg, and the purple light 
On Noc-na-ve 1 gleams coldly bright, 
And from his heathery brow the streams 
Rush joyous in the kindling beams ; 
O'er hill, and wave, and forest red, 
One wide blue sea of mist is ; 



Save where more brightly, deeply blue, 
Ivera's mountains meet the view, 
And falls the sun with mellower streak 
On Sliav-na-goilas* giant peak. 
Still as its dead, is now the breeze 
In Ard-na-mrahir's weeping trees — 
So deep its silence, you might tell 
Each plashing rain-drop as it fell. 
Beneath its brow the waters wild 
Are sleeping, like a merry child 
That sinks from fretful fit to rest, 
On its fond mother's peaceful breast 

On yonder grave cold lies the turf 

Besprent with rain and ocean's surf, 

So purely, freshly green ; 

And kneeling by that narrow bed. 

With pallid cheek and drooping head, 

A lonely form is seen. 

Long kneels he there in speechless woe, 

Silent as she who lies below 

In her cold and silent room ; 

The trees hang motionless above, 

There's not a breath of wind to move 

The dripping eagle plume ; 

Well might you know that man of grief 

To be Ivera's widow'd chief. 

He rose at last, and as he took 
Of that dear spot his last sad look, 
Convulsive trembled all his frame — 
He strove to utter Eva's name ; 
Then wildly rushing to the shore, 
Was never seen or heard of more. 8 



i Noc-na-ve (the hill of toe deer), 1b the name of the hill over 
? town of Bantry. 



> Sllav-na-goll (the mountain of the wild people), now Sugar 
loaf hill, appears, from its proximity and conical form, to be the 
highest of that chain of mountains which runs all along the west. 
era side of Bantry Bay, and divides the counties of Cork ».' 
Kerry. 

' Dnnal Comm made his escape into Spain. 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



httlhntQM ||(rems. 



GOUGANE BARRA. 

There is a green island in lone Gougane Barra, 

Where Allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow ; 

In deep-valley'd Desmond — a thousand wild foun- 
tains 

Come down to that lake, from their home in the 
mountains. 

There grows the wild ash, and a time-stricken 
willow 

Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow. 

As, like some gay child, that sad monitor scorn- 
ing. 

It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morn- 

in g- 

And its zone of dark hills — oh! to see them 
all bright'ning, 

When the tempest flings out its red banner of 
lightning ; 

And the waters rush down, mid the thunder's 
deep rattle, 

Like clans from their hills at the voice of the 
battle ; 

And brightly tha fire-crested billows are gleam- 
ing, 

And wildly from Mullagh the eagles are scream- 
ing. 

Oh ! where is the dwelling in valley, or highland, 

So meet for a bard as this lone little island ! 



How oft when the summer sun rested on Clara, 
And lit the dark heath on the hills of Ivora, 
Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home 

by the ocean, 
And trod all thy wilds with a minstrel's devotion, 
A.nd thought of thy bards, when assembling to- 
gether, 
In the cleft of thy rocks or the depth of thy 

heather, 
They fled from the Saxon's dark bondage and 
slaughter, 



And waked their last song by the rush of thy 

water ! 
High sons of the lyre, oh ! how proud was the 

feeling, 
To think while alone through that solitude steal- 
ing, 
Though loftier Minstrels green Erin can number, 
I only awoke your wild harp from its slumber, 
And mingled once more with the voice of those 

fountains, 
The songs even echo forgot on her mountains, 
And gleaned each gray legend, that darkly was 



mist and the rain o'er their 
was creeping ! 



Least bard of the hills ! were it mine to inherit 
The fire of thy harp and the wing of thy spirit, 
With the wrongs which like thee to our country 

has bound me ; 
Did your mantle of song fling its radiance around 

me, 
Still, still in those wilds may young Liberty rally, 
And send her strong shout over mountain and 

valley ; 
The star of the west may yet rise in its glory, 
And the land that was darkest be brightest in 

story. 
I too shall be gone ; but my name shall be spoken 
When Erin awakes, and her fetters are broken : 
Some minstrel will come, in the summer e»e's 

gleaming, 
When Freedom's young light on his spirit is 

beaming, 
And bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion, 
Where calm Avon Buee seeks the kisses of ocean, 
Or plant a wild wreath, from the banks of that 

river, 
O'er the heart and the harp that are sleeping for- 
ever. 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN 



TO A SPRIG OF MOUNTAIN HEATH. 

Thou little stem of lowly heath ! 
Nursed by the wild wind's hardy breath, 
Dost thou survive, unconquer'd still, 
Thy stately brethren of the hill ? 
No more the moruing mist shall break 
Around Clogh-grenan's towering peak; 
The stag no more wilh glance of pride 
Looks fearless from its hazel side ; 
But there thou livest lone and free, 
The hermit plant of Liberty. 

Child of the mountain ! many a storm 

Hath ilreneh'd thy head and shoo'k thy form, 

Since in thy depths Clon-muire lay, 

To wait the dawning of that day ; 

And many a sabre, as it beam'd 

Forth from its heather scabbard, gleam'd 

When Lelx its vengeance hot did slake 

In yonder city of the lake, 

And its proud Saxou fortress' bore 

The banner green of Riery More. 

Thou wert not then, as thou art now, 
Upon a bondsman-minstrel's brow ; 
But wreathing round the harp of Leix, 
When to the strife it fired the free, 
Or from the helmet battle-sprent 
Waved where the cowering Saxon bent. 
Yet blush not, for the bard you crown 
Ne'er stoop'd his spirit's homage down, 
And he can wake, though rude his skill, 
The songs you loved on yonder hill. 

Repine not, that no more the spring 
Its balmy breath shall round thee fling : 
No more the heathcock's pinion sway 
Shall from thy bosom dash the spray. 
More sweet, more blest thy lot shall prove : 
Go — to the breast of her I love, 
And speak for me to that blue eye ; 
Breathe to that heart my fondest sigh ; 
And tell her in thy softest tone 
That he who sent thee is — her own. 



Tbe fortress «lladed to is the Castle of Carlow, bnllt in 
the time of Kirg John, and still an imposing ruin. Riery Mom 
was the Chieftain of Leix (the present Queen's County) In the time 
of Elizabeth. He was brave, politic and accomplished above bia 
ri'der countrymen of that period; he stormed the Castle of Carlow, 
w*iich, being within tbe pale, belonged to the English ; they never 
i,ail a more skilful enemy in tbe country. Riere, Anglice Roger. 
—Carlow, or Cabir-longb, literally tbe City of the Lake— Clough. 
frenna, the sunny bill. It is near *'arlow, but in the Queen's 
County and was formerly thiokly oovered with oak. 



SPANISH WAR-SONG. 

Ye sons of old Iberia, brave Spauiaids, up, arise ; 
Along your hills, like distant rills, the voice of 

battle flies ; 
Once more, with threats of tyranny, come on 

the host of France. 
Ye men of Spain, awake again, to Freedom's fight 

advance. 

Like snow upon your mountains, they gather 

from afar, 
| To launch upon your olive-fields the avalanche 

of war ; 
Above the dark'ning Pyrenees their cloud of 

battle flies, 
To burst in thunder on your plains ; — brave 

Spaniards, up, arise. 

sons of Viriatus, Hispania's boast and prid<-, 
Who long withstood, in fields of blood, the 

Roman's battle-tide, 
Arise again to match his deeds and kindle at his 

name, 
And let its light, through Freedom's fight, still 

guide you on to feme. 

Descendants of those heroes in Roman song 

renown'd, 
Whose glorious strife for Liberty with deathless 

name was crown'd — 
Come down again, unconquer'd men, like Biscay's 

ocean roar, 
And show yourselves the Cantabers your fathers 

were of yore. 

Saguntum's tale of wonder shines bright upon 

your page, 
And old Numantia's story shall live through 

every age : 
Her children sung their farewell song, their own 

loved homes they fired, 
And in the blaze, 'mid Freedom's rays, all 

gloriously expired. 

( Too verses of the Spanish War-song, not in the printed 
copy.) 

Long, long each Spanish father his kindling 
boys shall tell, 

How gallantly Gerona fought, how Saragoza fell ; 

Long, long, above the waves of time those death- 
less names shall be 

A beacon light to all who fight for home or 
liberty. 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



577 



Ok, offspring of that hero by Spanish hearts 

adored, 
Who on the proud Morescoe bands his mountain 

vengeance pour'd, 



Once more to waste your lovely fields come on 

the hordes of France — 
Descendants of Pelayo, to Freedom's fight ad- 



Songs, Jgrical |jh«s, #c. 



«SI JE TE PERDS, JE SUIS PERDU." 

These straws were suggested by an impress on a Seal, repre- 
senting a boat at sea, and a man at tbe holm looking np at a 
•oUtary Btar, with a motto— Si jete perde, je suit perdu. 

Shine on, thou bright beacon, 

Unclouded and free, 
From thy high place of calmness 

O'er life's troubled sea ; 
Its morning of promise, 

Its smooth waves are gone, 
And the billows rave wildly — 

Then, bright one, shine on. 

The wings of the tempest 

May rush o'er thy ray ; 
But tranquil thou smilest, 

Undimm'd by its sway : 
High, high o'er the worlds 

Where storms are unknown, 
Thoc dwellest all-beauteous, 

All-glorious, — alone. 

From the deep womb of darkness 

The lightning flash leaps, 
O'er the bark of my fortunes 

Each mad billow sweeps, — 
From the port of her safety, 

By warring winds driven, 
And no light o'er her course 

But yon lone one of heaven. 

Tet fear not, thou frail one, 

The hour may be near, 
When our own sunny headland 

Far off shall appear : 
When the voice of the storm 

Shall be silent and past, 
In some island of heaven 

We may anchor at last. 



But, bark of Eternity, 

Where art thou now ? 
The wild waters shriek 

O'er each plunge of thy prow : 
On the world's dreary Ocean, 

Thus sbatter'd and tost-- 
Then, lone one, shine on, 

" If I LOSE THEE, I'M LOST." 



HOW KEEN THE PANG. 

How keen the pang when friends must part, 
And bid the unwilling last adieu ; 

When every sigh that rends the heart, 
Awakes the bliss that once it knew ! 



He that has felt, alone can tell 
The dreary desert of the mind, 

When those whom once we loved so well 
Have left us weeping here behind • 

When every look so kindly shed, 
And every word so fondly °poken, 

And every smile, is faded, fled, 

And leaves the heart alone and broken. 

Yes, dearest maid ! that grief was mine, 
When, bending o'er thy shrouded bier, 

I saw the form that once was thine — 
My Mary was no longer there. 

But on the relics pale and cold, 
There sat a sweet seraphic smile, 

A calm celestial grace, that told 
Our parting was but for a while. 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



WRITTEN TO A YOUNG LADY 

ON ENTERING A CONTENT. 

Tis the rose of the desert — 

So lovely, so wild ; 
In the lap of the desert 

Its infancy smiled : 
In the languish of beauty 

It droops o'er the thorn, 
And its leaves are all wet 

With the bright tears of morn. 

Yet 'tis better, thou fair one, 

To dwell all alone, 
Than recline on a bosom 

Less pure than thine own : 
Thy form is too lovely 

To be torn from its stem, 
And thr breath is too sweet 

For the children of men. 

Bloom on thus in secret, 

Sweet child of the waste, 
Where no lips of profaner 

Thy fragrance shall taste ; 
Bloom on where no footstep 

Unhallow'd hath trod, 
And give all thy blushes 

And sweets to thy God. 



LINES ON A DECEASED CLERGYMAN. 

Breathe not his honor'd name, 

Silently keep it ; 
Hush'd be the sadd'ning theme, 

In secrecy weep it ; 
Call not a warmer flow 

To eyes that are aching ; 
Wake not a deeper throe 

In hearts that are breaking. 

Oh, 'tis a placid rest ; 

Who should deplore it ? 
Trance of the pure and blest — 

Angels watch o'er it : 
Sleep of his mortal night, 

Sorrow can't break it ; 
Heaven's own morning light 

Alone shall awake it. 



Nobly thy course is run — 

Splendor is round it ; 
Bravely thy fight is won — 

Freedom hath crown'd it ; 
In the high warfare 

Of heaven grown hoary, 
Thou'rt gone like the summer-sun, 

Shrouded in glory. 

Twine — twine the victor wreath, 

Spirits that meet him ; 
Sweet songs of triumph breathe, 

Seraphs, to greet him ! 
From his high resting-place 

Who shall him sever ? 
With his God face to face, 

Leave him forever. 



LINES 

ON THE DEATH OF AN AMIABLE AND HIGHLY 
TALENTED TOUNG MAN, WHO FELL A VICTIM 
TO FEVER IN THE WEST INDIES. 

All rack'd on his feverish bed he lay, 

And none but the stranger were near him ; 

No friend to console, in his last sad day, 
No look of affection to cheer him. 



1 deep were the groans he drew, 
On that couch of torture turning ; 
And often his hot wild hand he threw 
O'er his brows, still wilder burning. 

But, oh ! what anguish his bosom tore, 

How throbb'd each strong pulse of emotion, 

When he thought of the friends he should 
never see more, 
In his own green Isle of the Ocean ! — 

When he thought of the distant maid of nil 
heart, — 

Oh, must they thus darkly sever — 
No last farewell, ere his spirit depart — 

Must he leave her unseen, and forever ? 

One sigh for that maid his fond heart heaved, 
One prayer for her weal he breathed ; 

And his eyes to that land for whose woes he had 
grieved, 
Once look'd — and forever were sheathed. 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



On a cliff that by footstep is seldom prest, 
Far seaward its dark head rearing, 

A rude stone marks the place of his rest ; — 
" Here lies a poor exile of Erin." 

Yet think not, dear Youth, though far, far sway 
From thy own native Isle thou art sleeping, 

That no heart for thy slumber is aching to-day, 
That no eye for thy mem'ry is weeping. 

Oh ! yes — when the hearts that have wailed thy 
young blight, 
Some joy from forgetfulness borrow, 
The thought of thy doom will come over their 
light, 
And shade them more deeply with sorrow. 

And the maid who so long held her home in thy 
breast, 

As she strains her wet eye o'er the billow, 
Will vaioly embrace, as it comes from the west, 

Every breeze that has swept o'er thy pillow. 



AND MUST WE PART. 

And must we part ? then fare thee well ; 
But he that wails it — he can tell 
How dear thou wert, how dear thou art, 
And ever must be to this heart : 
But now 'tis vain — it cannot be ; 
Farewell ! and think no more on me. 

Oh ! yes — this heart would sooner break, 

Than one unholy thought awake ; 

I'd sooner slumber into clay, 

Than cloud thy spirit's beauteous ray : 

Go free as air — as Angel free, 

And, lady, think no more on me. 

Oh, did we meet when brighter star 
Sent its fair promise from afar, 
I then might hope to call thee mine, 
The Minstrel's heart and harp were thine; 
But now 'tis past — it cannot be: 
Farewell ! and think no more on me. 

Or do ! — bnt let it be the hour, 
When Mercy's all-atoning power 
From his high throne of glory hears 
Of souls like thine the prayers, the tears ; 
Then, whilst you bend the suppliant 
Then then, O Lady, think on me. 



PURE IS THE DEWY GEM. 1 

Pcek is the dewy gem that sleeps 
Within the rose's fragrant bed, 

And dear the heart-warm drop that steep* 
The turf where all we loved is laid ; 

Bat far more dear, more pure than they, 

The tear that washes guilt away. 

Sweet is the morning's balmy breath 
Along the valley's flowery side, 

And lovely on the moonlit heath 

The lute's soft tone complaining wide; 

But still more lovely, sweeter still, 

The sigh that wails a life of ill. 

Bright is the morning's roseate gleam 
Upon the mountains of the East, 

And soft the moonlight silvery beam 
Above the billow's placid rest ; 

But oh, what ray ere shone from heaven 

Like God's first smile on a soul forgiven ! 



TO * * * * * 

Lady — the lyre thou bid'st me take, 

No more can breathe the minstrel strain; 
The cold and trembling notes I wake, 

Fall on the ear like plashing rain ; 
For days of suffering and of pain, 

And nights that lull'd no care for me, 
Have tamed my spirit, — then in vain 

Thou bid'st me wake my harp for the*. 

But could I sweep my ocean lyre, 

As once this feeble hand could sweep, 
Or catch once more the thought of fire, 

That lit the Mizen's stormy steep, 
Or bid the fancy cease to sleep, 

That once could soar on pinion free, 
And dream I was not born to weep ; 

Oh, then I'd wake my harp for thee. 

And now 'tis only friendship's call 
That bids my slumbering lyre awake. 

It long hath slept in sorrow's hall : 
Again that slumber it must seek : 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



Not even the lighi ot beauty's cheek, 
Or blue eye beaming kind and free, 

Can bid its mournful numbers speak : 
Then, lady, ask no lay from me. 



Yet if, on Desmond's mountain wild, 

By glens I love, or ocean cave, 
Nature once more should own her child, 

And give the strength that once she gave ; 
If he who lights my path should save, 

And what I was I yet may be ; 
Then, lady, by green Erin's wave, 

I'll gladly wake my harp for thee. 



STANZAS. 



Hours like those I spent with you, 

So bright, so passing, and so few, 

May never bless me more, — farewell ! 

My heart can feel, but dare not tell, 

The rapture of those hours of light, 

Thus snatch'd from sorrow's cheerless night. 

'Tis not thy cheek's soft blended hue ; 
'Tia not thine eye of heavenly blue ; 
'Tis not the radiance of thy brow, 
That thus would win or charm me now ; 
It is thy heart's warm light, that glows 
Like sunbeams on December snows. 



It is thy wit, that flashes bright 
As lightning on a stormy night, 
Illuming even the clouds that roll 
Along the darkness of my soul, 
And bidding, with an angel's voice, 
The heart that knew no joy — rejoice. 



Too late we met — loo soon we part, 
Yet deaier to my soul thou art 
Than some whose love has grown for years, 
Smiled with my smile, and wept my tears. 
Farewell ! — but absent, thou shalt seem 
The vision of some heaveuby dream, 
Too bright on child of earth to dwell. 
It must be so — My friend, farewell. 



THE NIGHT WAS STILL. 

The night was still — the air was balm — 

Soft dews around were weeping ; 
No whisper rose o'er ocean's calm, 

Its waves in light were sleeping. 
With Mary on the beach I strny'd. 

The stars beam'd joy above me— 
I press'd her hand and said, " Sweet maid, 

Oh tell me, do you love me?" 
With modest air she droop'd her head, 

Her check of beauty vailing: 
Her bosom heaved — no word she said — 

I mark'd her strife of feeling ; 
" Oh speak my doom, dear maid," I cried, 

" By yon bright heaven above thee :" 
She gently raised her eyes and sigh'd, 

" Too well you know I love thee." 



SERENADE. 



The blue waves are sleeping; 

The breezes are still ; 
The light dews are weeping 

Soft tears on the hill; 
The moon in mild beauty 

Looks bright from above; 
Then come to the casement, 

O Mary, my love. 

Not a sound or a motion 

Is over the lake, 
But the whisper of ripples, 

As shoreward they break ; 
My skiff wakes no ruffle 

The waters among ; 
Then listen, dear maid, 

To thy true lover's song. 

No form from the lattice 

Did ever recline 
Over Italy's waters, 

More lovely than thine ; 
Then come to thy window, 

And shed from above 
One glance of thy dark eye, 

One smile of thy love. 

Oh ! the soul of that eye, 

When it breaks from its shroud, 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN, 



581 



Shines beauteously out, 

Like the moon from a cloud ; 
And thy whisper of love, 

Breathed thus from afar, 
Ib sweeter to me 

Than the sweetest guitar. 

Prom the storms of this world 

How gladly I'd fly 
To the calm of that breast, 

To the heaven of that eye ! 
How deeply I love thee 

'Twere useless to tell ; 
Farewell, then, my dear one — 

My Mary, farewell. 



ROUSSEAU'S DREAM.' 



Life for me is dark and dreary ; 

Every light is quench'd and gone; 
O'er its waste, all lone and weary, 

Sorrow's child, I journey on. 
Thou whose smile alone can cheer me, 

Whose bright form still haunts my breast, 
From this world in pity bear me 

To thy own high home of rest. 

Hush ! — o'er Leman's sleeping water, 

Whispering tones of love I hear ; 
'Tis some fond unearthly daughter 

Woos me to her own bright sphere. 
Immortal beauty ! yes, I see thee, 

Come, oh ! come to this wild breast ! 
Oh ! I fly — I burn to meet thee — 

Take me to thy home of rest. 



WHEN EACH BRIGHT STAR IS 
CLOUDED. 

Are— " OlSr Bug Dale." 

Whkn each bright star is clouded that illumined 

our way, 
And darkly through the bleak night of life we 

stray, 



wild ] 

The Apostle of affliction, Ac 

His was not the love of mortal dame — 

But of idoa beauty, etc.— Child* HiBOU>. 



What joy then is left us, but alone to weep 
O'er the cold dreary pillow where loved ones 
sleep ? 



This world has no pleasure that is half so dear, 
That can soothe the widow'd bosom like memory's 

tear; 
'Tis the desert rose drooping in moon's soft 

dew, 
In those pure drops looks saddost, but softest 

too. 



Oh, if ever death should sever fond hearts from 

me, 
And I linger like the last leaf on autumn's tree, 
While pining o'er the dead mates all sear'd below, 
How welcome will the last blast be that lays me 

low! 



HUSSA THA MEASG NA REALTAN 
MORE. 1 

My love, my still unchanging love, 
As fond, as true, as hope above, 
Though many a year of pain pass'd by 
Since last I heard thy farewell sigh, 
This faithful heart doth still adore 
Hussa tha measg na realt&n more. 



What once we hoped, might then have been, 
But fortune darkly frown'd between : 
And though far distant is the ray 
That lights me on my weary way, 
I love, and shall 'tilHife is o'er, 
Hussa tha measg na realt&n more. 



Though many a light of beauty shone 
Along my path, and lured me on, 
I better loved thy dark bright eye, 
Thy witching smile, thy speaking sigh : 
Shine on — this heart shall still adore 
Hussa tha measg na realt&n more. 

> Thou who art amongst the greater planeU. 



582 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



j&aenb Subjects. 



THE VIRGIN MARY'S BANK. 

Fkom the foot or Incbidony Island an elevated traot of mnd 
nma oat into the sea and terminates In a high green bank, which 
forms a pleasing contrast with the little desert behind it and the 
black solitary rook immediately nnder. Tradition tells that the 
Virgin came one night to this hillock to pray, and was discovered 
kneeling there by the crew of a vessel that was coming to anchor 
near the place. They laughed at her piety, and made some merry 
and unbecoming remarks on her beauty, upon which a storm arose 
and destroyed the ship and her crew. Since that time no vessel 
has been known to anchor near the spot. 

Such is the story upon which the following stanza! 



The evening star rose beauteous above the fading 
day, 

As to the lone and silent beach the Virgin came 
to pray, 

And hill and wave shone brightly in the moon- 
light's mellow fall ; 

But the bauk of green where Mary knelt was 
brightest of them all. 

Slow moving o'er the waters a gallant bark ap- 
peared, 

And her joyous crew look'd from the deck as to 
the land she near'd ; 

To the calm and shelter'd haven she floated like 
a swan, 

And her wings of snow o'er the waves below in 
pride and beauty shone. 

The Master saw our Lady as he stood upon the 
prow, 

And mark'd the whiteness of her robe and the 
radiance of her brow ; 

Her arms were folded gracefully upon her stain- 
less breast, 

And her eyes look'd up among the stais to Him 
her soul loved best. 

He show'd her to his sailors, and he hail'd her 

with a cheer ; 
And on the kneeling Virgin they gazed with 

laugh and ieer, 



And madly swore a form bo fair they never saw 

before ; 
And they cursed the faint and lagging breeze 

that kept them from the shore. 

The ocean from its bosom shook oft" the moon- 
light sheen, 

And up its wrathful billows rose to vindicate 
their Queen ; 

And a cloud came o'er the heavens, and a dark- 
ness o'er the land, 

And the scoffing crew beheld no more that Lady 
on the strand. 

Out burst the pealing thunder, and the lightning 

leap'd about, 
And rushing with his watery war, the tempest 

gave a shout, 
And that vessel from a mountain wave came 

down with thundering shock, 
And her timbers flew like scatter'd spray on In- 

chidony's rock. 

Then loud from all that guilty crew one shriek 
rose wild and high ; 

But the angry surge swept over them and hush'd 
their gurgling cry ; 

And with a hoarse exulting tone the tempest 
pass'd away, 

And down, still chafing from their strife, the in- 
dignant waters lay. 

When the calm and purple morning shone out 

on high Dunmore, 
Full many a mangled corpse was seen on Inchi- 

dony's shore ; 
And to this day the fisherman shows where the 

scoffers sank, 
And still he calls that hillock green " the Virgin 

Mary's bank." 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



( Verte omitted from " The Virgin MaryU Bank.") 

And from his brow she wiped the blood and 
wrung his dripping hair, 

And o'er the breathless sailor boy she bent her- 
self in prayer, 

And life came rushing to his cheek and his bosom 
heaved a sigh, 

And up the lifeless sailor rose in the mercy of 
her eye. 



MARY MAGDALEN. 



To the hall of that feast came the sinful and fair ; 
She heard in the city that Jesus was there : 
She mark'd not the splendor that blazed on their 

board, 
But silentlv knelt at the feet of the Lord. 



The hair from her forehead, so sad and so meek, 
Hung dark o'er the blushes that burn'd on her 

cheek ; 
And so still and so lowly she bent in her shame, 
It seem'd as her spirit had flown from its frame. 

The frown and the murmur went round through 

them all, 
That one so unhallow'd should tread in that 

hall; 
And some said the poor would be objects more 

meet 
For the wealth of the perfumes she shower'd on 

his feet. 



She mark'd but her Saviour, she spoke but in 

sighs, 
She dared not look up to the heaven of his eyes, 
And the hot tears gush'd forth at each heave of 

her breast, 
As her lips to his sandal were throbbingly press'd. 

On the cloud after tempests, as shineth the bow, 
In the glance of the sunbeam, as melteth the snow, 
He look'd on that lost one — her sins were for- 
given, 
And Mary went forth in the beauty of heaven. 



SAUL, 

HOLDING THB GARMENTS OF THE MCRDRREKS OF 



The soldier of Christ to the stake was bound, 
And the foes of the Lord beset him round ; 
But his forehead beam'd with unearthly light, 
As he look'd with joy to his last high fight. 

Beyond that circle of death was one 
Whose hand was unarm'd with glaive or stone; 
But the garments he held, as apart he stood, 
Of the men who were bared for the work of blood. 

His form not tall, but his bearing high, 
And courage sat in his dark deep eye ; 
His cheek was young, and he seem'd to stand 
Like one who was destined for high command. 

But the hate of his spirit you well might learn 
From his pale high brow so bent and stern, 
And the glance that at times shot angry light, 
Like a flash from the depth of a stormy night. 

'Twas Saul of Tarsus ! — a fearful name, 
And wed in the land with sword and flame ; 
And the faithful of Israel trembled all 
At the deeds that were wrought by the furious 
Saul. 

'Tis done ! — the martyr hath slept at last, 
And his victor soul to the Lord hath pass'd ; 
And the murderers' hearts wax'd sore with guilt, 
As they gazed on the innocent blood they spilt 

But Saul went on in his fiery zeal ; 
The thirst of his fury no blood could quell ; 
And he went to Damascus with words of doom, 
To bury the faithful in dungeon-gloom; 

When lo 1 — as a rock by the lightning riven, 
His heart was smote by a voice from heaven, 
And the hater of Jesus loved naught beside, 
And died for the name of the Crucified. 



THE MOTHER OF THE MACHABEES. 

That mother view'd the scene of blood — 
Her six unconquei J d sous were gone — 

Tearless she viewed : beside her stood 
Her last — her youngest — dearest one ; 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



He look'd upon her, and he smiled — 


In that wide sea, 


Oh ! w.tl she save that only child • 


Whose waters free 




Can find no shore to bound them — 


" By all my love, my son," she said — 


On whose calm breast 


"The breast that nursed — the womb that 


Pure spirits rest 


bore — 


With all their glory round them : 


The unsleeping care that watch'd thee — fed — 


Oh that my soul all free, 


'Till manhood's years required no more ; 


From bonds of earth might sever ! 


By all I've wept and pray'd for thee, 


Oh that those isles might be 


Now, now, be firm and pity me. 


Her resting-place forever ! 


" Look, I beseech thee, on yon heaven, 
With its high field of azure light, 

Look on this earth, to mankind given, 
Array'd in beauty and in might, 

And think — nor scorn thy mother's prayer— 

On Him who said it, and they were! 


When all those glorious spheres 

The watch of heaven are keeping, 
And dews, like angels' tears, 
Around are gently weeping ; 
Oh who is he 
That carelessly 


" So shalt thou not this tyrant fear, 


On virtue's bound encroaches, 
But then will feel 


Nor recreant shun the glorious strife. 


Behold ! thy battle-field is near : ■ 


Upon him steal 


Then go, my son, nor heed thy life; 


Their silent sweet reproaches ? 


Go ! — like thy faithful brothers die, 


Oh that my soul all free, 


That I may meet you all on high." 


From bonds of earth might sever ! 


Oh that those isles might be 


Like arrow from the bended bow, 


Her resting-place forever 1 


He sprang upon the bloody pile — 




Like sunrise on the morning's snow, 


And when in secret sighs 


Was that heroic mother's smile. 


The lonely heart is pining, 


He died — nor fear'd the tyrant's nod — 


If we but view those skies 


For Judah's law, and Judah's God ! 


With all their bright host shining- 




While sad we gaze 




On their mild rays, 




They seem like seraphs smiling, 




To joys above, 


MOONLIGHT. 


With looks of love, 




The weary spirit wiling : 


Tis sweet at hush of night 


Oh that my soul all free, 


By the calm moon to wander, 


From bonds of earth could aeT« ! 


d view those isles 01 light 


Oh that those isles might be 


hat float so far beyond her. 


Her resting-place forever ! 






THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



translations from tjje $risjr. 



Though the Irish are undoubtedly of a poetio temperament, yet 
the popular songs of the lower order are neither numerous nor 
in general possessed of much beauty. For this various causes 
may be assigned ; but the most prominent is the division of lan- 
guage which prevails in Ireland. English, though of late years it 
is gaining ground with great rapidity, is not even yet the popular 
language in many districts of the country, and thirty years since 
it was still less so. Few songs, therefore, were composed in English 
by humble minstrels, and the few that I know, are of very little 
value indeed in any point of view. The poets of the populace 
confined, themselves chiefly to Irish— a tongue which, whatever 
may beiis capabilities, had ceased to be the language of the great 
and polished for centuries before the poetic taste revived in 
Europe. They were compelled to use a despised dialect, which, 
moreover, the political divisions of the country had rendered an 
object of suspicion to the ruling powers. The government and 
populace were indeed so decidedly at variance, that the topics 
which the village bards were obliged to select were such as often 
to render the indulgence of their poetic powers rather dangerous. 
Their heroes were frequently inmates of jails or doomed to the 
gibbet, and the severe crftieism of the cat-o^nine-tails might be 
the lot of the panegyrist. 

Wales to be sure has produced and continues to produce her 
bants, though the Welsh also use a language differing from that 
of their conquerors. But Wales is so completely dovetailed into 
England, that resistance to the victorious power was hopeless, and 
therefore after the first struggles not attempted. The Welsh lan- 
guage was consequently no distinguishing mart of a cast deter- 
minate^ hostile to the English domination, and continually the 
object of suspicion. It was and is still cultivated by all classes, 
though I understand not as mnch as formerly. The case was quite 
different In Ireland. No gentleman has nsed Irish as his common 
ainguage for generations ; multitudes do not understand a word of 
It; it was left to the lower orders exclusively, and they were de- 
pressed and uneducated, and consequently wild and illiterate. 

Let no zealous countryman of mine imagine that I am going to 
Impeach the ancient fame of our bards and sennchies, or to aban- 
don our claims, or the glories, such as they are, of the Ossianio 
fragments. I merely speak of the state of popular Irish poetry 
during the last century or century and a half. With our ancient 
minstrels I meddle not. Ossian I leave to his wrangling commen- 
tators and still more wrangling antiquaries; and for the bards of 
more modern times (those for instance who flourished in the days 
of Elizabeth), laccept the compliment of Spenser, who knewthera 
well and hated thom bitterly. But the poetic sympathies of the 
mighty minstrel of Old Mole could not allow his political feelings 
to hinder him from acknowledging, in his View of Ireland, that 
he had caused several songs of the Irish bards to be translated, 
that ho might understand them; "and surely," he says, "they 
savored of sweet wit and good invention, but skilled not of the 
goodly ornaments of poetry; yea, they were sprinkled with some 
pretty flowers of their natural device, which gave good grace and 
eomellnesse unto them, the which it is great pity to see abused to 
the gracing of wickedness and vice, which with good usage would 
serve to adorne and beautifle virtue." 

The following songs are specimens of the popular poetry of 
later days. I have translated them as closely as possible, and pre- 
sent them to the public more as literary- 
other account 



DIEGE OF O'STJLLIVAN BEAR. 

In IT—, one of the 0'Sulliva.ns of Bearhaven, who went by tin 
name of Morty Oge, fell under the vengeance of the law. Ho had 
long been a turbulent character in the wild district which ho in- 
habited, and was particularly obnoxious to the local authorities, 
who had good reason to suspect him of enlisting men for the Irish 
Brigade in the French service, in which it was said he held a 
Captain's commission. 

Information of his raising these "wild geese" (the name by 
which such recruits were known) was given by a Mr. Puxley, on 
whom, in consequence, O'Sullivan vowed revenge, which he exe- 
cuted by shooting him on Sunday, while on his way to chnrch. 
This called for the interposition of the higher powers, and accord- 
ingly a party of military were sent round from Cork to attack 
O'Sullivan's house. He was daring and well armed, and the house 
was fortified, so that he made an obstinate defence. At last a con- 
fidential Bervant of his, named Scully, was bribed to wet the 
powder in the guns and pistols prepared for his defence, which 
rendered him powerless. He attempted to escape; but while 
springing over a high wall in the rear of his house, he received ft 
mortal wound in the back. They tied his body to a boat, and 
dragged it in that manner through the sea from Bearhaven to 
Cork, where his head was cut off and fixed on the county jail, 
where it remained for several years. 

Such is the story current among the lower orders about Bear- 
haven. In the version given of it in the rude chronicle of the 
local occurrences of Cork, there is no mention made of Scully'* 
perfidy, and perhaps that circumstance might have been added by 
those by whom O'Sullivan was deemed a hero, in order to save his 
credit as much as possible. The dirge was composed by his nurse, 
who has made no sparing use of the energy of cursing, which the 
Irish language is by all allowed to possess. 

(In the following Bong, Morty— in Irish, Muiertach, or Mulr- 
cheartach— is a name very common among the old families of 
Ireland. It sisniflcs expert at sea Og, or Oge, is young. Where 
a whole district is peopled in a great measure by a sept of one 
name, such distinguishing titles are necessary, and in some cases 
even supersede the original appellation. I-vera, or Aoi-vera, it 
the original name of Bearhaven ; Aoi, or I, signifying an Island or 
territory.) 

The sun upon Ivera 

No longer shines brightly *, 
The voice of her music 

No longer is sprightly ; 
No more to her maidens 

The light dance is dear, 
Since the death of our darling, 

O'Sullivan Bear. 



Scully ! thou false one, 
You basely betray'd him, 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



Jn his strong hour of need, 

When tby right hand should aid him : 
He fed thee — he clad thee — 

You had all could delight thee ; 
Tou left him — you sold him — 

If ay heaven requite thee 1 

Scully ! may all kinds 

Of evil attend thee; 
On thy dark road of life 

May no kind one befriend thee ; 
May fevers long burn thee, 

And agues long freeze thee ! 
May the strong haud of God 

In his red anger seize thee. 

Had he died calmly, 

I would not deplore him ; 
Or if the wild strife 

Of the sea-war closed o'er him ; 
But with ropes round his white limbs 

Through ocean to trail him, 
Like a fish after slaughter ! — 

'Tis therefore I wail him. 

Long may the curse 

Of his people pursue them — 
Scully that sold him, 

And soldier that slew him ; 
One glimpse of heaven's light 

May they see never ; 
May the hearthstone of hell 

Be their best bed forever ! 

In the hole which the vile hands 

Of soldiers had made thee, ■ 
Unhonor'd, unshrouded, 

And headless they laid thee ; 
No sigh to regret thee, 

No eye to rain o'er thee, 
No dirge to lament thee, 

No friend to deplore thee. 

Dear head of my darling, 

How gory and pale, 
These aged eyes saw thee 

High spiked on their jail! 
That cheek in the summer sun 

Ne'er shall grow warm, 
Ntor that eye e'er catch light 

But the flash of t),e storm. 



A curse, blessed ocean, 

Is on thy green water, 
From the haven of Cork 

To Ivera of slaughter, 
Since the billows were dyed 

With the red wounds of f 
Of Muiertach Oge, 

Our O'Sullivan Bear. 



THE GIRL I LOVE. 

8ud 1 sios an c»6In ban aluin 6g. 

A large proportion of the aonga I have met with are 'or* 
■ongs. Somehow or other, truly or untruly, the Irish have ob- 
tained a character for gallantry, and the peasantry, beyond doubt, 
do not belie the "6oft impeachment" Tlieir modes of courtship- 
are sometimes amusing. The " malo me Galatea petit" of Vlreril 
would still find a counterpart among them— except that the mis- 
sile of love (which I am afraid is not eo poetical as tlie apple of 
the pastoral, being neither more nor less than a potato) come* 
first from the gentleman. He flings it, with aim designedly er- 
ring, at his sweetheart; and if she returns the fire, a warmer ad- 
vance concludes the preliminaries and establishes the suitor. 
Courtships, however, are sometimes carried on among them with- 
a delicacy worthy of a more refined staire of society, and un- 
cbastity is very rare. This, perhaps, is in a great degree occasioned 
by their extremely early marriages, tbe advantage or disadvantage 
of which I leave to be discussed by Mr. Malthus and his antago- 

At their dances (of which they are very fond), whether a-field 
or in ale-house, a piece of gallantry frequently occurs, which la- 
alluded to in the following song. A young man, smitten suddenly 
by the charms of a dansevse belonging to a company to which he- 
is a stranger, rises, and with his best bow offers her his glass and 
requests her to drink to him. After due refusal, it is usually ao- 
cepted, and is looked on as a good omen of successful wooing. 
Goldsmith alludes to this custom of his country in the Deserted- 
Village: 

" The coy maid, half willing to be press'd, 
Shall kiss the cup, and pass it to the rest" 

^—.nted, and perhaps never 
,_... -under which circumstances it would appear that thli 
song was written. 

The girl I love is comely, straight, and tall, 
Down her white neck her auburn tresses fall ; 
Her dress is neat, her carriage light and free — 
Here's a health to that charming maid, whoe'er 
she he 1 

The rose's blush but fades beside her cheek. 
Her eyes are blue, her forehead pale and meek, 
Her lips like cherries on a summer tree — 
Here's a health to the charming maid, whoe'er 
she be ! 

When I go to the field no youth can lighter 

bound, 
And I freely pay when the cheerful jug goes 

round; 



The parties may be totally 



THE POEMS OF J. J. C ALLAN AN. 



The barrel is full, but its heart we soon shall 

Come, here's to that charming maid, whoe'er 
she be! 

Had I the wealth that props the Saxon's reign, 
Or the diamond crown that decks the King of 

Spain, 
I'd yield them all if she kindly smiled on me— 
Here's a health to the maid I love, whoe'er she 

be! 

Five pounds of gold for each lock of her hair 

I'd pay, 
And five times five for my love one hour each 

day; 
Her voice is more sweet than the thrush on its 

own green tree — 
Then, my dear, may I drink a fond deep health 

to thee ! 



THE CONVICT OF CLONMEL. 

Is dubac e mo c&s. 

Who the hero of this song is I know not, but convicts, from 
obvious reasons, have been peculiar objects of sympathy in Ire- 
land. Hurling, which is mentioned in one of the verses, is the 
principal national diversion, and is played with intense zeal by 
pari6h against parish, barony against barony, county against, county, 
or even province against province. It is played not only by the 
peasant, but by the patrician students of the University, where it 
is an established pastime. Twiss, the most sweeping calumniator 
of Ireland, calls it, if I mistake not, the cricket of barbarians ; bat 
though fully prepared to pay every tribute to the elegance of the 
English game, I own that I think the Irish sport fully as civilized, 
and much better calculated for the display of vigor and activity. 
Perhaps I shall offend Scottish nationality if I prefer cither to golf, 
which is, I think, but trifling compared with them. In the room 
belonging to the Golf Club on the Links of Leith, there hangs a 
picture of an old lord (Rosslyn), which I never could look at with- 
out being struck with the disproportion between the gaunt figure 
of the peer and the petty instrument in his hand. Strutt, in 
"Sports and Pastimes" (page 78), eulogizes the activity of some 
Irishmen, who played the game about twenty-five years before 
the publication of his work (1S01), at the back of the British 
Museum, and deduces it from the Roman harpastntn. "It was 
played in Cornwall formerly," he adds ; " but neither the Romans 
nor the CorniAhmen used a bat, or, as we call it in Ireland, a 
hurly. The description Strutt quotes from old Carew is quite 
graphic. The late Dr. Gregory, I am told, used to be loud in 
panegyric on the superiority of this game, when played by the 
Irish students, over that adopted by his young countrymen north 
and south of the Tweed, particularly over golf, which he called 
•• riddling wl' a plok ;" but enough of this. 

How hard is my fortune, 

And vain my repining ! 
The strong rope of fate 

For this young neck is twining ! 



My strength is departed, 
My cheeks sunk and sallow, 

While I languish in chains 
In the jail of Clonmala.' 

No boy of the village 

Was ever yet milder ; 
I'd play with a child 

And my sport would be wilder ; 
I'd dance without tiring 

From morning till even, 
And the goal-ball I'd strike 

To the lightning of heaven. 

At my bed-foot decaying, 

My hurl-bat is lying ; 
Through the boys of the village 

My goal-ball is flying ; 
My horse 'mong the neighbors 

Neglected may fallow, 
While I pine in my chains 

In the jail of Clonmala. 

Next Sunday the patron* 

At home will be keeping, 
And the young active hurlers 

The field will be sweeping ; 
With the dance of fair maidens 

The evening they'll hallow, 
While this heart once so gay 

Shall be cold in Clonmala. 



THE OUTLAW OF LOCH LENE. 

Oh, many a day have I mado good ale in th« 
glen. 

That came not of stream, or malt, like the brew- 
ing of men, 

My bed was the ground, my roof the greenwood 
above, 

And the wealth that I sought — one far kind 
glance from my love. 

Alas! on that night when the horses I drove 

from the field, 
That I was not near, from terror my angel to 

shield ! 



[ Clonmala, i. «., the solitude of deceit, the Irish name of Clon 
festive gathering of tho people on 



58P 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



She stretch'd forth her arms — her mantle she I With her hand round my waist, Fd fear not the 

flung to the wind, wind or the wave. 

And swam o'er Loch Leue, her outlaw'd lover to 



find. 

Oh, would that a freezing, sleet-wing'd tempest 

did sweep, 
And I and my love were alone far offon the deep ! 
Td ask not a ship, or a bark, or pinnace to 

save — 



'Tis down by the lake where the wild tree fringe* 

its sides, 
The maid of my heart, the fair one of heaven 

resides : 
I think, as at eve she wanders its mazes along, 
The birds go to sleep by the sweet wild twist of 

her song. 



JatoHt* Songs. 



That the Roman Catholics of Irelandshould have been Jacobites 
•Imoflt to a man Is little wonderful ; indeed, the wonder would be 
were it otherwise. They bad lost every thing fighting for the 
-cause of the Stuarts, and the conquerors had made stern use of 
the victory. But while various movements in favor of that un- 
happy family were made in England and Scotland, Ireland was 
quiet; not indeed from want of inclination, but from want of 
power. The Roman Catholics were disarmed throughout the 
entire land, and the Protestants, who retained a farce hatred of 
the exiled family, were armed and united. The personal influence 
of the Earl of Chesterfield, who was Lord Lieutenant in 1745, and 
who made himself very popular. Is generally supposed to have 
contributed to keep Ireland at ;-eace in that dangerous year ; but 
the reason I have assigned is perhaps more substantial. 

But though Jacobiilcal, even these songs will suffice to prove 
that it was not out of love for the Stuarts that they were anxious 
to take up arms, but to revenge themselves on the Saxons (that is, 
Ihe English generally, but in Ireland the Protestants), for the de- 
feat they experienced in the days of William III., and the subse- 
quent depression of their party and their religion. James IL Is 
universally spoken of by the lower orders of Ireland with the 
utmost contempt and distinguished by an appellation which is too 
strong for ears polite, but which is universally given him. His 
celebrated expression at the battle of the Boyne, " Oh, spare my 
English, subjects," being taken in the most perverse sense, instead 
of obtaining for him the praise of wishing to show some lenity to 
those whom he still considered as rightfully under his sceptre, 
■even in opposition to his cause, was, by his Irish partisans, con- 
strued into a desire of preferring the English on all occasions to 
them. The celebrated reply of the captive officer to William, 
that " if the armies changed generals, victory would take a differ- 
ent side," iB carefully remembered; and every misfortune that 
happened in the war of the Revolution is laid to tke charge of 
James's want of courage. The truth is, be appears to have dis- 
played little of the military qualities which distinguished him in 
former days. 

The first of these three songs Is a great favorite, principally from 
ts beautiful air. I am sure there Is scarcely a peasant in the south 
of Ireland who has not heard it The second Is the White Cock- 
ade, of which the first verse is English. The third is (at least In 
Irish) a strain of higher mood, and, from its style and language, 
evidently written by a man of more than ordinary information. 



O SAY, MY BROWN DRIMIN. 



> sioda 1 na mbo. 






(Drlmln is the favorite name of a eow, by which Ireland ts her* 
allegoricully denoted. The five ends of Erin are the five king- 
doms— Mnnster, Leinster, Ulster, Connaught, and Meath— into 
which the island was divided under the Milesian dynasty.) 

O sat, my brown Drimin, thou silk of the kine, 
Where, where are thy strong ones, last hope of 

thy line ? 
Too deep and too long is the slumber they take ; 
At the loud call of Freedom why don't they awake f 

My strong ones have fallen — from the bright eye 

of day, 
All darkly they sleep in their dwelling of clay; 
The cold turf is o'er them — they hear not my 

cries, 
And since Louis no aid gives, I cannot arise. 

Oh ! where art thou, Louis ? our eyes are on thee; 
Are thy lofty ships walking in strength o'er the seal 
In Freedom's last strife if you linger or quail, 
No morn e'er shall break on the night of the GaeL 

But should the king's son, now bereft of hit 

right, 
Come proud in his strength for his country to 

fight, 
Like leaves on the trees will new people arise, 
And deep from their mountains shout back to 

my cries. 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



When the Prince, now an exile, shall come for 

his own, 
The isles of his father, his rights and his throne, 
My people in battle the Saxons will meet, 
And kick them before, like old shoes from their 

feet. 

O'er mountains and val'eys they'll press on their 

route, 
The five ends of Erin shall ring to their shout : 
My sons all united, shall bless the glad day 
When the flint-hearted Saxons they've chased 

far away. 



THE WHITE COCKADE. 

Taid mo gra fir fl breataib da. 
King Charles he is King James's son, 
And from a royal line is sprung ; 
Then up with shout, and out with blade, 
And we'll raise once more the white cockade. 
Oh ! my dear, my fair-hair'd youth, 
Thou yet hast hearts of fire and truth ; 
Then up with shout, and out with blade — 
We'll raise once more the white cockade. 

My young men's hearts are dark with woe, 
On my virgins' cheeks the grief-drops flow ; 
The sun scarce lights the sorrowing day, 
Since our rightful prince went far away. 
He's gone, the stranger holds his throne, 
The royal bird far off is flown ; 
But up with shout, and out with blade — 
We'll stand or fall with the white cockade. 

No more the cuckoo hails the spring. 

The woods no more with the staunch-hounds 

ring; 
The song from the glen, so sweet before, 
Is hush'd since our Charles has left our shore. 
The Prince is gone ; but he soon will come, 
With trumpet sound and with beat of drum : 
Then up with shout, and out with blade ; 
Huzza for the right and the white cockade ! 



THE AVENGER. 

Si Mucin »'n la sin bo seasta bfeio m'lnttn. 

O Heavens 1 if that long-wished-for morning I 

spied, 
As high as throe ktags I'd leap up in my pride ; 



With transport I'd laugh, and my shout should 

arise, 
As the fires from each mountain blazed blight to 

the skies. 

The avenger shall lead us right on to the foe, 
Our horns should sound out, and our trumpets 

should blow ; 
Ten thousand huzzas should ascend to high 

heaven, 
When our Prince was restored, and our fetters 

were riven. 

O chieftains of Ulster ! when will you come forth, 
And send your strong cry to the winds of the 

north ? 
The wrongs of a king call aloud for your steel- 
Red stars of the battle — O'Donnell, O'Neal ! 

Bright house of O'Connor, high offspring of kings,, 
Up, up, like the eagle, when heavenward he 

springs ! 
Oh, break ye once more from the Saxon's strong 

rule, 
Lost race of MacMurchad, O'Byrne, and O'Toole f 

Momonia of Druids — green dwelling of song ! 
Where, where are thy minstrels ? why sleep they 

so long ? 
Does no bard live to wake, as they oft did before. 
M'Carthy— O'Brien— O'Sullivan More ? 

Oh, come from your hills, like the waves to the 

shore, 
When the storm-girded headlands are mad with 

the roar ! 
Ten thousand hurrahs shall ascend to high heaven,. ' 
When our Prince is restored and our fetters are 

riven. 1 



1 The names In this song are those of the principal families 
in Ireland, many of whom, however, were decided enemies to 
the house of Stuart. The reader cannot fail toobserve the strange 
expectation which these writers entertained of the nature of the 
Pretender's designs: they call on him not to come to reinstate 
himself on the throne of his fathers, but to aid them in doing ven- 
geance on "the flint-hearted Saxon." Nothing, however, could 
be more natural. The Irish Jacobites, at least the Eoman Catho- 
lics, were in the habit of claiming the Stuarts as of the Milesian 
line, fondly deducing them from Fergus and the Celts of Ireland. 
Who the avenger is, whose arrival is prayed for in this song, I 
am not sure ; but circumstances too tedious to be detailed make 
me think that the date of the song is 1708, when a general im- 
pression prevailed that the field would be taken in favor of th* 
Pretender, under a commander of more weight and authority than 
had come forward before. Hia name was kept a secret. Very 
little has been written on the hiBtory of the Jacobites o( Ireland, 
and yet I think it would be an interesting subject. We have now 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



THE LAMENT OF O'GNIVE. 

(FmASixtTBA O'Gmami was family Olamh, or bard, to tho 
O'Neil of Claneboy aboot the year 1656. The poem, of which the 
following lines are the translation, commences with " Ma thrvagh 
mar ataid* Goadhit.") 

How dimm'd is the glory that circled the Gael, 
And fallen the high people of green Innisfail !' 
The sword of the Saxon is red with their gore ; 
And the mighty of nations is mighty no more ! 

Like a bark on the ocean, long shatter'd and 
toss'd, 

On the land of your fathers at length you are 
lost; 

The hand of the spoiler is stretch'd on your 
plains, 

And you're doom'd from your cradles to bond- 
age and chains. 

Oh, where is the beauty that beam'd on thy brow ? 
Strong hand in the battle, how weak art thou 

now ! 
That heart is now broken that never would quail, 
And thy high songs are turn'd into weeping and 

wail. 

Bright shades of our sires! from your home in 

the skies, 
Oh, blast not your sons with the scorn of your 

eyes! 
Proud spirit of Gollam,* how red is thy cheek, 
For thy freemen are slaves, and thy mighty are 

weak! 

O'Neil" of the hostages — Con, 4 whose high name 
On a hundred red battles has floated to fame, 
Let the long grass still sigh undisturb'd o'er thy 

sleep ; 
Arise not to shame us, awake not to weep. 



In thy broad wing of darkness enfold us, ln'cr 1 f t; 
Withhold, O bright sun, the reproach of my 

light; 
For freedom or valor no more canst thou see 
In the home of the brave, iu the isle of the free. 

Affliction's dark waters your spirits have bow'd, 
And oppression hath wrapp'd all your land in 

its shroud, 
Since first from the Brehons" pure justice you 

stray'd, 
And bent to the laws the proud Saxon has made. 

We know not our country, so strange is her face ; 
Her sons, once her glory, are now her disgrace; 
Gone, gone is the beauty of fair Innisfail, 
For the stranger now rules in the land of the 
Gael. 

Where, where are the woods that oft rung to 
your cheer, 

Where you waked the wild chase of the wolf 
and the deer ? 

Can those dark heights with ramparts all frown- 
ing and riven 

Be the hills where your forests waved brightly 
in heaven ? 

O bondsmen of Egypt ! no Moses appears 

To light your dark steps through this desert of 

tears ; 
Degraded and lost ones ! no Hector is nigh 
To lead you to freedom, or teach you to die ! 



arrived at a time when it could be done without exciting any 
angry feelings. 

In Momonia (Munster), Druldism appears to have flourished 
most, as we may conjecture from the numerous remains of Druid- 
ical workmanship, and the names of places indicating that worship. 
The records of the province are the best kept of any in Ireland, 
and it has proverbially retained among the peasantry a character 
for superior learning. 

1 Innisfail — the Island of Destiny — one of the names of Ireland. 

3 Gollamh — a name of Milesius, the Spanish progenitor of the 
Irish O'a and Macs. 

' Nial of the Nine Hostages, the heroic monarch of Ireland in 
the fourth century, and ancestor of the O'Neil family. 

* Con Cead Catha— Con of the Hundred Fights, monarch of the 
island in tlie second century; although the fighter of a hundred 
battles, he was not the victor of a hundred fields. His valorona 
rivai, Owen, king of Munster, compelled him to a division of the 



ON THE LAST DAY. 

Oh! after life's dark sinful way, 

How shall I meet that dreadful day, 

When heaven's red blaze spreads frightfully 

Above the hissing, withering sea, 

And earth through al! her regions reels 

With the strong, shivering fear she feels ! 

When that high trumpet's awful sound 
Shall send its deep-voiced summons round, 
And, starting from their long, cold sleep, 
The living-dead shall wildly leap — 
Oh! by the painful path you trod, 
Have mercy then, my Lord ! my God ! 



Brehons — the hereditary judges of the Irish t 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



Oh ! thou who on that hill of blood, 
Beside thy Son iD anguish stood ; — 
Thou, who above this life of ill, 
Art the bright star to guide us still ; — 
Pray that my soul, its sins forgiven, 
May find some lonely home in heaven. 



A LAY OF MIZEN HEAD. 

The subject of tbe " Lay of Mizen Head" was the wreck of the 
Conflance, sloop-of-war, lost April, IS'22, about a mile west of 
liizen Head. All on board perished ; among the rest many young 
midshipmen who had Just Joined the service and were going to 
Join their respective ships. 

It was the noon of Sabbath, the spring-wind 

swept the sky, 
And o'er the heaven's savannah blue the boding 

scuds did fly, 
And a stir was heard amongst the waves o'er 

all their fields of might, 
Like the distant hum of hurrying hosts when they 

muster for the fierht. 



The fisher mark'd the changing heaven, and high 

his pinnace drew, 
And to her wild and rocky home the screaming 

sea-bird flew ; 
But safely in Cork haven the shelter'd bark may 

rest 
Within the zone of ocean hills that girds its 

litHiiteous breast. 

Amongst the stately vessels in that calm port 

was one 
"Whose streamers waved out joyously to hail the 

Sabbath sun ; 
And scatter'd o'er her ample deck were careless 

hearts and free, 
Thatlaugh'd to hear the rising wind, and mock'd 

the frowning sea. 

One youth alone bent darkly above the heaving 

tide— 
His heart was with his native hills and with his 

beauteous bride ; 
And with the rush of feelings deep his manly 

bosom strove, 
As he thought of her he had left afar in the 

spring-time of their love. 



What checks the seaman's jovial mirth and clouds 
his sunny brow ? 

Why does he look with troubled gaze from port- 
hole, side, and prow ? 

A moment — 'twas a death-like pause — that sig- 
nal—can it be ? — 

That signal quickly orders out the Confiance to 
sea. 

Then there was springing up aloft and hurrying 

down below, 
And the windlass hoarsely answer'd to the hoarse 

and wild " heave yo !" 
And vows were briefly spoken then that long had 

silent lain, 
And hearts and lips together met that ne'er may 

meet again. 

Now darker lower'd the threatening sky, and 
wilder heaved the wave, 

And through the cordage fearfully the wind be- 
gan to rave : 

The sails are set, the anchor weigh'd — what recks 
that gallant ship ? 

Blow on ! Upon her course she springs, like 
greyhound from the slip. 

O heavens ! it was a glorious sight, that stately 
ship to see, 

In the beauty of her gleaming sails and her pen- 
nant floating free, 

As to the gale with bending tops she made her 
haughty bow, 

And proudly spurn'd the waves that burn'd 
around her flashing prow ! 

The sun went down, and through the clouds 
look'd out the evening star, 

And westward from old Ocean's Head' beheld 
that ship afar. 

Still onward fearlessly she flew, in her snowy 
pinion-sweep, 

Like a bright and beauteous spirit o'er the moun- 
tains of the deep. 



It blows a fearful tempest — 'tis the dead watch 

of the night — 
The Mizen's giant brow is streak'd with red and 

angry light — 



1 The old head of Kinsale. Such la the meaning of the Irian 



592 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



And by its far-illuming glance a struggling bark 
I see. 

Wear, wear ! the land, ill-fated one, is close be- 
neath your lee 1 

Another flash — they still hold out for home and 
love and life, 

And under close-reef'd topsail maintain the un- 
equal strife. 

Now out the rallying foresail flies, the last, the 
desperate chance — 

Can that be she ? — O heavens, it is — the luckless 
Confiance ! 

Hark! heard you not that dismal cry? 'Twas 

stifled in the gale — 
Oh ! clasp, young bride, thine orphan child, and 

raise the widow's wail ! 
The morning rose in purple light o'er ocean's 

tranquil sleep ; 
But o'er their gallant quarry lay the spoilers of 

the deep. 



THE LAMENT OF KIRKE WHITE. 

'Twas evening, and the sun's last golden beam 
On that sad chamber cast its farewell gleam, 
Then sunk — to him, forever. Yet one streak 
Of lingering radiance lit his faded cheek. 
His hand was press'd to his pale, clouded brow, 
Where sat a spirit that might break, not bow ; 
And the cold starry lustre of his eye, 
Than inspiration's scarce less purely high, 
Seem'd, through the mist of one o'e 



The herald of the minstrel's loftier sphere. 

On a small table by the sufferer's bed 

The sibyl leaves of song were rudely spread. 

His sad eye wander'd with a dark delight 

O'er scatter'd gleams of many a thought of light ; 

And pride could not suppress one low deep sigh, 

To think when he was gone they too must die. 

Fame long had woo'd him with her sunny smile 
To tread her paths of glory and of toil. 
His was the wreath that many vainly seek ; 
His the proud temple on the mountain peak ; 
But the vile shaft from some ignoble string 
Brought down to earth the minstrel's soaring 
wing. 



They little knew, who dealt the dastard stroke, 
The mind they clouded and the heart they broke, 

He thought of home and mother : dearer far, 
He thought of her, his far-off, beauteous star. 
He loved, it may be madly, but too well, 
Oue whom he may not breathe, and dare not tell. 
He could not boast the line of which he came, 
Of lofty title, honor, wealth, or fame. 
B'mm'd in by adverse fate, his fiery soul 
Like prison'd eagle felt its dark control : 
Give but his spirit scope — to win that hand 
His pilgrim foot had trod earth's farthest land. 
He would have courted danger on the deep, 
Or 'mid the battle's desolating sweep — 
All, all endured, uublenching gaged even life 
For one sweet word, to call that dear oue wife. 

What now had woman left to gaze upon — 
Himself a wreck, his bright hopes queuch'd 

and gone ? 
Some thus would live : the lightning of his mind 
Shiver'd his frame, and left him with mankind 
Scathed and lone ; yet stood he fearlessly 
On the last wave-mark of eternity, 
And as above its shoreless waste he hung, 
Thus to his harp's low tone the minstrel sung : — 



THE LAMENT. 

Awake, my lyre, though to thy lay no voice of 
gladness sings, 

Ere yet the viewless power be fled that oft hath 
swept thy strings ; 

I feel the flickering flame of life grow cold with- 
in my breast — 

Yet once again, my lyre, awake, and then I sink 
to rest. 

And must I die \ Then let it be, since thus 'tis 

better far, 
Than with the world and conquering fate to wage 

eternal war. 
Come, then, thou dark and dreamless sleep ; to 

thy cold clasp I fly 
From shatter'd hopes and blighted heart, and 

pangs that cannot die. 

Yet would I live — for, oh ! at times I feel the 

tide of song 
In swells of light come strong and bright my 

heaving heart along ; 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



Yet would I live — in happier day, to wake, with 

master hand, 
A lay that should embalm my name in Albin's 

beauteous land. 

Oh, had I been in battle-field amid the charging 

brave, 
I then had won a soldier's fame or fill'd a soldier's 



grave ; 
I then had lived to call 

bliss to me, 
Or smiled in death, my sy 

died for thee. 



mine, thou all of 
it one, to think I 



'Tis past, they've won — my sun has set — I see 

my coming night ; . 
I never more shall press that hand or meet that 

look of light. 
Among old Albin's future bards no song of mine 

shall rise. 
Go, sieep, my harp, forever sleep — go, leave me 

to my sighs ! 

They've won — but, Mary, from this breast thy 

love they could not part, 
All freshly green it lingers round the ruin of my 

heart. 
One thought of me may cloud thy soul, one tear 

may dim thine eye, 
That I have sung and loved in vain, forsaken 

thus to die ! 

England ! my country 1 despite of all my 

wrongs, 

1 love thee still, my native land, thou land of 

sweetest songs ; 
One thought still cheers my life's last close — that 

I shall rest in thee, 
And sleep as minstrel heart should sleep, among 

the brave and free. 



WRITTEN TO A YOUNG LADY, 

Who, in the author's presence, had taxed the Irish with want of 
gallantry, proving her position by the fact of their not sere- 
nading, as the Italians, <&c, do. 

Yes, lady, 'tis true in our cold rugged isle 
Love seldom puts on him his warm sunny smile. 



No youth from his boat or the orange-tree shade 
Sings at eve to his lady the sweet serenade. 
Yet, 'tis not that Erin has daughters less fair 
Than Italy's maids with their dark-flowing hair 
And 'tis not the souls of her sons are less brave 
Than the gay gondoliers on Neapoli's wave. 
Saw you not when his country her banner dis- 

play'd, 
And 'mid victory's glad shout on high flash'd 

her blade, 
How that lover so true with his sprightly guitar 
Grew pale at the first blast of liberty's war ? 
Saw you not how, when prostrate yon eagle was 

hurl'd, 
Whose proud flight of conquest would compass 

the world, 
Our Erin rear'd o'er it her green flag on high, 
And the shouts of her victor sons peal'd in the 

sky? 
Thus, though scorn'd and rejected, long, long 

may they prove 
The strongest in fight and the fondest in love ! 



STANZAS TO ERIN. 

Composed, probably, after he had left for Lisbon. 

Still green are thy mountains and bright is thy 

shore, 
And the voice of thy fountains is heard as of 

yore: 
The sun o'er thy valleys, dear Erin, shines on, 
Though thy bard and thy lover forever is gone. 

Nor shall he, an exile, thy glad scenes forget — 
The friends fondly loved, ne'er again to be met — 
The glens where he mused on the deeds of his 

nation, 
And waked his young harp with a wild inspira- 
tion. 

Still, still, though between us may roll the broad 
ocean, 

Will I cherish thy name with the same deep de- 
votion ; 

And though minstrels more brilliant my place 
may supply, 

None loves you more fondly, more truly than I. 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALL AN AN. 



LINES TO MISS 0. 



You're " getting sense," you'll " write no more I" 

The sweet delusive dream is o'er, 

And fancy's bright and meteor ray 

Is but a light that leads astray ; 

No more the wreath of song you'll twine — 

Calm reason, common sense be thine I 

As well command the troubled sky, 
When winds are loud and waves are high ; 
As well call back the parted soul, 
Or force the needle from the pole, 
False to the star it loved so long — 
As turn the poet's heart from song. 

If aught be true that minstrel deems 

Of sister spirit in bis dreams — 

The still pale brow's expression high — 

The silent eloquence of eye, 

Its fitful flashes, bright and wild — 

Thou art and must be fancy's child. 

And reason, sense — are they confined 
To the austere and cold of mind ! 
Must thoughtless folly still belong 
To those who haunt the paths of song, 
And o'er this vale of woe and tears 
Pour the sweet strain of happier spheres ? 

No, lady — still let fancy spring 
On her own wild and wayward wing ; 
Still let the fire of genius glow, 
Ami the strong tide of feeling flow: 
The bright imaginings of youth 
Are but the Titian tints of truth. 

When chill November sweeps along 
With its own hoarse and sullen song, 
And wither'd lies the autumn's pride, 
And every flower you nursed hath died; 
Whilst other hearts in ennui pine, 
The poet's raptures shall be thine. 

Then gaze upon the lightning's flash, 
And listen to the wild wave's dash. 
Others may tremble at their tone ; 
Not thou— their language is thine own. 
Mark how the seagull wings his way 
Through billow's foam anc 1 wintry spray — 
With tireless wing and joyous cry 
Proclaims its ocean liberty ! 



Yes, my young friend, if I may claim 
For humble bard so dear a name, 
Still let thy heart revere the lyre, 
Still iet thy hands awake its fire, 
Walk in the light that God hath given, 
And make Dunmanus' wilds a heaven. 

For me, believe, where'er I stray 
Through life's uncertain, toilsome way, 
Whether calm peace my lot may be, 
Or toss'd on fortune's stormy sea, 
I'll think upon the young, the fair, 
The kind warm hearts that met me there. 



LINES TO ERIN. 



When dulness shall chain the wild harp that 
would praise thee, 
When its last sigh of freedom is heard on thy 
shore, 
When its raptures shall bless the false heart that 
betrays thee — 
Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more! 

Wnen thy sons are less tame than their own 
ocean waters, 
When their last flash of wit and of genius is 
o'er, 
When virtue and beauty forsake thy young 
daughters — 
Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more ! 



When the sun that now holds his bright path 
o'er thy mountains 
Forgets the green fields that he smiled on be- 
fore, 
When no moonlight shall sleep on thy lakes and 
thy fountains — 
Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more 1 

When the name of the Saxon and tyrant shall 
sever, 
When the freedom you lost you no longer de- 
plore, 
When the thoughts of your wrongs shall be 
sleeping forever — 
Oh, then, dearest Erin, I'll love thee no more t 






THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



WELLINGTON'S NAME. 

How bless'd were the moments when liberty 
found thee 
The first in her cause on the fields of the brave, 
When the young lines of ocean were charging 
around thee 
With the strength of their hills and the roar 
of their wave! 



Oh, chieftain, what then was the throb of thy 
pride, 
When loud through the war-cloud exultingly 
came, 
O'er the battle's red tide, which they swell'd as 
they died, 
The shout of green Erin for Wellington's name ! 

How sweet, when thy country thy garland was 
wreathing, 
And the fires of thy triumph blazed brightly 
along, 
Came the voice of its harp all its witchery breath- 
ing, 
And hallow'd thy name with the light of her 
song 1 

And oh, 'twas a strain in each patriot breast 
That waked all the transport, that lit all the 
flame, 
And raptured and blest was the Isle of the West 
When her own sweetest bard sang her Wel- 
lington's name 1 



But 'tis past — thou art false, and thy country's 
sad story 
Shall tell how she bled and she pleaded in 
vain ; 
How the arm that should lead her to freedom and 
glory, 
The child of her bosom, did rivet her chain ! 

Yet think not forever her vengeance shall sleep : 

Wild harp that once praised him, sing louder 

his shame, 

And where'er o'er the deep thy free numbers 

may sweep, 

Bear the curse of a nation on Wellington's 



THE EXILE'S FAREWELL. 
Adieu, my own dear Erin, 

Receive my fond, my last adieu ; 
I go, but with me bearing 

A heart still fondly turn'd to yon. 

The charms that nature gave thee 

With lavish hand, shall cease to smile, 

And the soul of friendship leave thee, 
E'er I forget my own green isle. 



Ye fields where heroes 1 

To meet the foes of liberty ; 
Ye hills that oft resounded 

The joyful shouts of victory, 

Obscured is all your glory, 

Forgotten all your former fame, J 

And the minstrel's mournful story 

Now calls a tear at Erin's name. 

But still the day may brighten 

When those tears shall cease to flow, 

And the shout of freedom lighten 
Spirits now so drooping low. 

Then should the glad breeze blowing 

Convey the echo o'er the sea, 
My heart, with transport glowing, 

Shall bless the hand that made thee free. 



SONG. 

'L»ddie of Bnchan.* 



Awake thee, my Bessy, the morning is fair, 
The breath of young roses is fresh on the air, 
The sun has long glanced over mountain and 

lake — 
Then awake from thy slumbers, my Bessy, awake. 

Oh, come whilst the flowers are still wet with 

the dew — 
I'll gather the fairest, my Bessy, for you ; 
The lark poureth forth his sweet strain for thy 

sake — 
Then awake from thy slumbers, my Bessy, awake. 

The hare from her soft bed of heather hath gone, 
The coot to the water already hath flown ; 
There is life on the mountain and joy on the lake — 
Then awake from thy slnmbers, my Bessy, awake 



r,96 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



DE LA VIDA DEL CIELO. 
[op heavenly lifeJ 

(From the Spanish of Lois de Leon.) 

Clime forever fair and bright, 

Cloudless region of the blest, 
Summer's heat or winter's blight 
Comes not o'er thy fields of light, 
Yielder of endless joy and home of endless rest. 

There his flock whilst fondly tending, 

All unarm'd with staff or sling, 
Flowers of white and purple blending 
O'er his brow of beauty bending, 
The heavenly Shepherd walks thy breathing fields 
of spring. 

Still his look of love reposes 

On the happy sheep he feeds 
With thine own undying roses, 
Flowers no clime but thine discloses ; 
And still the more they feast more freshly bloom 

thy meads. 

To thy hills in glory blushing 

Next his charge the Shepherd guides, 
And in streams all sorrow hushing, 
Streams of life in gladness gushing, 
His happy flock he bathes and their high food 
provides. 

And when sleep their eye encumbers 

In the noontide radiance strong, 
With his calumet's sweet numbers 
Lulls them in delicious slumbers, 
And rapt in holy dreams they hear that 'trancing 
song. 

At that pipe's melodious sounding, 
Thrilling joys transfix the soul ; 
And in visions bright surrounding, 
Up the ardent spirit bounding, 
Springs on her pinion free to love's eternal goal. 

Minstrel of heaven, if earthward stealing, 
This ear might catch thy faintest tone, 
Then would thy voice's sweet revealing 
Drown my soul with holiest feeling. 
And this weak heart that strays, at length be all 
thine own. 

Then, with a joy that knows no speaking, 
I would wait thy smile on yon high shore, 



And from earth's vile bondage breaking 
Thy bright home, good Shepherd, seeking — 
Live with thy blessed flock, nor darkly wandei 



TO THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. 

Fair star of the morning. 

How pure is thy beam, 
Though the spirit of darkness 

Half shadow its gleam ! 
In the host of yon heaven 

No bright one doth shine 
With a glory more purely 

Refulgent than thine. 



LINES TO THE BLESSED SACRAMENT. 

Thou dear and mystic semblance, 

Before whose form I kneel, 
I tremble as I think upon 

The glory thou dost veil, 
And ask myself, can he who late 

The ways of darkness trod, 
Meet face to face, and heart to heart, 

His sin-avenging God ? 

My Judge and my Creator, 

If I presume to stand 
Amid thy pure and holy ones, 

It is at thy command, 
To lay before thy mercy's seat 

My sorrows and my fears, 
To wail my life and kiss thy feet 

In silence and in tears. 

God ! that dreadful moment. 
In sickness and in strife, 

When death and hell seem'd watching 
For the last weak pulse of life, 

When ou the waves of sin and pain 
My drowning soul was toss'd, 

Thy hand of mercy saved me then, 
When hope itself was lost. 

1 hear thy voice, my Saviour, 

It speaks within my breast, 
" Oh, come to me, thou weary one, 
I'll hush thy cares to rest ;" 



THE POEMS OF J. J. CALLANAN. 



Then from the parch'd and burning waste 


How sad were the glances 


Of sin, where loug I trod, 


At parting we threw ! 


I come to thee, thou stream of life, 


No word was there spoken 


My Saviour and my God ! 


But the stifled adieu ; 




My lips o'er thy cold check 




All raptureless pass'd — 
'Twas the first time I press'd it 






It must be the last. 


THOUGH DARK FATE HATH REFT ME. 




Though dark Fate hath reft me 


But why should I dwell thus 


Of all that was sweet, 


On scenes that but pain, 


And widely we sever, 


Or think on thee, Mary, 


Too widely to meet — 


When thinking is vain J 


Oh, yet while one life pulse 


Thy name to this bosom 


Remains in this heart, 


Now sounds like a knell : 


Twill remember thee, Mary 


My fond one, my dear on«, 


Wherever thmi art. 


Forever —farewell 1 






POEMS OF WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 



THE WINDING BANKS OF ERNE: 

OB, THE EMIGBANt's ADIETJ TO BALLYSHANNON. 
(A LOCAL BALLAD.) 

Adieu to Ballyshannon ! where I was bred 

and born ; 
Go where I may, I'll think of you, as sure as 

night and morn, 
The kindly spot, the friendly town, where 

every one is known, 
And not a face in all the place but partly 

seems my own : 
There's not a house or window, there's not a 

field or hill, 
But, east or west, in foreign lands, I'll recol- 
lect them still. 
I leave my warm heart with you, though my 

back I'm forced to turn — 
So adieu to Ballyshannon, and the winding 

banks of Erne ! 

No more on pleasant evenings we'll saunter 
down the Mall, 

When the trout is rising to the fly, the sal- 
mon to the fall. 

The boat comes straining on her net, and 
heavily she creeps : 

Cast off, cast off ! — she feels the oars, and to 
her berth she sweeps ; 

Now fore and aft keep hauling, and gather- 
ing up the clue, 

Till a silver wave of salmon rolls in among 
the crew. 

Then they may sit, with pipes a-lit, and many 
a joke and " yarn ;" — 

Adieu to Ballyshannon, and the winding 
banks of Erne ! 

The music of the waterfall, the mirror of the 
tide, 

When all the green-hill'd harbor is full from 
side to side — 



From Portnasun to Bulliebawns, and round 
the Abbey Bay, 

From rocky Inis Saimer to Coolnargit sand- 
hills gray ; 

While far upon the southern line, to guard 
it like a wall, 

The Leitrim mountains, clothed in blue, 
gaze calmly over all, 

And watch the ship sail up or dowu, the red 
flag at her stern ; — 

Adieu to these, adieu to all the winding 
banks of Erne ! 

Farewell to you, Kildoney lads, and them 

that pull an oar, 
A lug-sail set, or haul a net, from the Point 

to Mullaghmore ; 
From Killybegs to bold Slieve-League, that 

ocean-mountain steep, 
Six hundred yards in air aloft, six hundred 

in the deep ; 
From Dooran to the Fairy Bridge, and round 

by Tullen strand, 
Level and long, and white with waves, where 

gull and curlew stand ; 
Head out to sea when on your lee the 

breakers you discern ! — 
Adieu to all the billowy coast, and winding 

banks of Erne ! 

Farewell Coolmore, — Bundoran ! and your 

summer crowds that run 
From inland homes to see with joy the 

Atlantic-setting sun ; 
To breathe the buoyant salted air, and sport 

among the waves ; 
To gather shells on sandy beach, and tempt 

the gloomy caves ; 
To watch the flowing, ebbing tide, the boats, 

the crabs, the fish ; 
Young men and maids to meet and smile, 

and form a tender wish : 



POEMS OF WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 



599 



The sick and old in search of health, for all 

things have their turn — 
And I must quit my native shore, and the 

winding banks of Erne ! 

Farewell to every white cascade from the 

Harbor to Belleek, 
And every pool where fins may rest, and 

ivy-shaded creek; 
The sloping fields, the lofty rocks, where 

ash and holly grow, 
The one split yew-tree gazing on the curving 

flood below ; 
The Lough, that winds through islands under 

Turaw mountain green ; 
And Castle Caldwell's stretching woods, 

with tranquil bays between ; 
And Breesie Hill, aDd many a pond among 

the heath and fern, — 
For I must say adieu — adieu to the winding 

banks of Erne ! 

The thrush will call through Camlin groves 

the livelong summer day ; 
The waters run by mossy cliff, and bank 

with wild-flowers gay; 
The girls will bring their work and sing 

beneath a twisted thorn, 
Or stray with sweethearts down the path 

among the growing corn ; 
Along the river side they go, where I have 

often been, — 
Oh, never shall I see again the days that I 

have seen ! 
A thousand chances are to one I never may 

return, — 
Adieu to Ballyshannon, and the winding 

banks of Erne ! 

Adieu to evening dances, when merry neigh- 
bors meet, 

And the fiddle says to boys and girls, " Get 
up and shake your feet !" 

To " shanachus" 1 and wise old talk of Erin's 
days gone by — 

Who trench'd the rath on such a hill, and 
where the bones may lie 

Of saint, or king, or warrior chief; with 
tales of fairy power, 



1 stories,— historic, genealogtei. 



And tender ditties sweetly sung to pass the 

twilight hour. 
The mournful song of exile is now for me to 

learn — 
Adieu, my dear companions on the winding 

banks of Erne ! 

Now measure from the Commons down to 

each end of the Purt, 
Round the Abbey, Moy, and Knather, — I 

wish no one any hurt ; 
The Main Street, Back Street, College Lane, 

the Mall, and Portnasun, 
If any foes of mine are there, I pardon every 

one. 
I hope that man and womankind will do the 

same by me ; 
For my heart is sore and heavy at voyaging 

the sea. 
My loving friends I'll bear in mind, and 

often fondly turn 
To think of Ballyshannon, and the winding 

banks of Erne. 

If ever I'm a money'd man, I mean, please 

God, to cast 
My golden anchor in the place where youth- 
ful years were pass'd ; 
Though heads that now are black and brown 

must meanwhile gather gray, 
New faces rise by every hearth, and old 

ones drop away — 
Tet dearer still that Irish hill than all the 

world beside ; 
It's home, sweet home, where'er I roam, 

through lands and waters wide, 
And if the Lord allows me, I surely will 

return 
To my native Ballyshannon, and the winding 

banks of Erne. 



THE ABBOT OF INNISFALLEN. 

(A KILLAKNEY LEGEND.) 

The Abbot of Innisfallen 

Awoke ere dawn of day ; 
Under the dewy green leaves 

Went he forth to pray. 



POEMS OF WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 



The lake around his island 

Lay smooth and dark and deep ; 

And wrapt in a misty stillness, 
The mountains were all asleep. 

Low kneel'd the Abhot Cormac, 
When the dawn was dim and gray • 

The prayers of his holy office 
He faithfully 'gan say. 

Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac, 
When the dawn was waxing red ; 

And for his sins' forgiveness 
A solemn prayer he said : 

Low kneel'd that holy Abbot, 

When the dawn was waxing clear ; 

And he pray'd with loving-kindness 
For his convent-brethren dear. 



Low kneel'd that blessed Abbot, 
When the dawn was waxing bright ; 

He pray'd a great prayer for Ireland, 
He pray'd with all his might. 

Low kneel'd that good old Father, 
While the sun began to dart ; 

He pray'd a prayer for all mankind, 
He pray'd it from his heart. 

The Abbot of Innisfallen 

Arose upon his feet ; 
He heard a small bird singing, 

And oh but it sung sweet ! 

He heard a white bird singing well 

Within a holly-tree ; 
A song so sweet and happy 

Never before heard he. 

It sung upon a hazel, 

It sung upon a thorn ; 
He had never heard such music 

Since the hour that he was born. 

It sung upon a sycamore, 

It sung upon a brier ; 
To follow the song and hearken 

Tli is Abbot could never tire. 



Till at last he well bethought him 

He might no longer stay ; 
So he bless'd the little white singing bird, 

And gladly went his way. 

But, when he came to his Abbey-walls, 
He found a wondrous change ; 

He saw no friendly faces there, 
For every face was strange. 

The strange men spoke unto him ; 

And he heard from all and each 
The foreign tongue of the Sassenach, 

Not wholesome Irish speech. 

Then the oldest monk came forward, 

In Irish tongue spake he : 
' Thou wearest the holy Augustine's dress, 
And who hath given it to thee ?" 

1 1 wear the holy Augustine's dress, 

And Cormac is my name, 
The Abbot of this good Abbey 
By grace of God I am. 

' I went forth to pray, at break of day ; 

And when my prayers were said, 
I hearken'd awhile to a little bird, 
That sung above my head." 

The monks to him made answer : 
" Two hundred years have gone o er 

Since our Abbot Cormac went through th« 
gate, 
And never was heard of more. 

' Matthias now is our Abbot, 
And twenty have pass'd away. 
The stranger is lord of Ireland ; 
We live in an evil day." 

• Now give me absolution ; 

For my time is come," said he. 
And they gave him absolution, 
As speedily as might be. 

Then, close outside the window, 
The sweetest song they heard 

That ever yet since the world begaii 
Was utter'd by any bird. 



POEMS OF WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 



The monks look'd out and saw the bird, 
Its feathers all white and clean ; 

And there in a moment, b&side it, 
Another white bird was seen. 

Those two they dang together, 

Waved their white wings, and fled ; 

Flew aloft, and vanish'd ; — 

But the good old man was dead. 

They buried his ble3s6d body 
' Where lake and greensward meet ; 

A carven cross above his head, 
A holly-bush at his feet ; 

Where spreads the beautiful water 

To gay or cloudy skies, 
And the purple peaks of Killamey 

From ancient woods arise. 



ABBEY ASAROE. 

Gbat, gray is Abbey Asaroe, by Ballyshan- 

non town, 
It has neither door nor window, the walls 

are broken down ; 
The carven stones lie scatter'd in brier and 

nettle-bed ; 
The only feet are those that come at burial 

of the dead. 
A little rocky rivulet runs murmuring to the 

tide, 
Singing a song of ancient days, in sorrow, 

not in pride ; 
The bore-tree 1 and the lightsome ash across 

the portal grow, 
And heaven itself is now the roof of Abbey 

Asaroe. 

It looks beyond the harbor-stream to Bulban 

mountain blue ; 
It hears the voice of Erna's fall, — Atlantic 

breakers too ; 

* " Bore-tree," a name for the elder-tree (tambuaii nigra). 



High ships go sailing past it ; the Bturdj 

clank of oars 
Brings in the salmon-boat to haul a net upon 

the shores ; 
And this way to his home-creek, when the 

summer day is done, 
The weary fisher sculls his punt across the 

setting sun; 
While green with corn is Sheegus Hill, hii 

cottage white below ; 
But gray at every season is Abbey Asaroe. 

There stood one day a poor old man above 

its broken bridge ; 
He heard no running rivulet, he saw nf 

mountain-ridge ; 
He turn'd his back on Sheegus Hill, and 

view'd with misty sight 
The Abbey-walls, the burial-ground with 

crosses ghostly white ; 
Under a weary weight of years he bow'd 

upon his staff, 
Perusing in the present time the former's 

epitaph ; 
For, gray and wasted like the walls, a figure 

full of woe, 
This man was of the blood of them who 

founded Asaroe. 

From Derry Gates to Drowas Tower, Tir- 

connell broad was theirs ; 
Spearmen and plunder, bards and wine, and 

holy abbot's prayers ; 
With chanting always in the house which 

they had builded high 
To God^and to Saint Bernard, — whereto 

they came to die. 
At worst, no workhouse grave for him ! the 

ruins of his race 
Shall rest among the ruin'd stones of this 

their saintly place. 
The fond old man was weeping ; and tremu- 
lous and slow 
Along the rough and crooked lane he crept 

from Asaroe. 2 



3 Asaroe, Eas-Aedha-Ruaidh, Cataract of Red Hngh, a 
fcmous waterfall on the river Erne, where King Hugh ia paid 
to have been drowned about 2300 years ago, gave name to th« 
neighboring Abbey, founded in the twelfth century. 



POEMS OF WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 



THE WONDROUS WELL. 

Came north and south and east and west, 
Four Pilgrims to a mountain crest, 
Each vow'd to search the wide world round, 
Until the Wondrous Well be found; 
For even here, as old songs tell, 
Shine sun and moon upon that Well; 
And now, the lonely crag their seat, 
The water rises at their feet. 

Said One, " This Well is small and mean, 
Too petty for a village-green. " 
Another said, " So smooth and dumb — 
From earth's deep centre can it come?" 
The Third, " This water's nothing rare, 
Hueless and savourless as air." 
The Fourth, " A Fane I look'd to see: 
Where the true Well is, that must be." 

They rose and left the lofty crest, 

One north, one south, one east, one west; 

Through many seas and deserts wide 

They wander'd, thirsting, till they died; 

Because no other water can 

Assuage the deepest thirst of man. 

— Shepherds who by the mountain dwell, 

Dip their pitchers in that Well. 



THE TOUCHSTONE. 

A MAN there came, whence none can tell, 
Bearing a Touchstone in his hand; 
And tested all things in the land 

By its unerring spell. 

Quick birth of transmutation smote 
The fair to foul, the foul to fair; 
Purple nor ermine did he spare, 

Nor scorn the dusty coat. 

Of heirloom jewels, prized so much, 

Were many changed to chips and clods, 
And even statues of the gods 

Crumbled beneath its touch. 



Then angrily the people cried, 

•' The loss outweighs the profit far; 
Our goods suffice us as they are; 

We will not have them tried." 

And since they could not so prevail 
To check his unrelenting quest, 
They seized him, saying — " Let him test 

How real it is, our jail ! " 

But, though they slew him with the sword, 
And in a fire his Touchstone burn'd, 
Its doings could not be o'erturn'd, 

Its undoings restored. 

And when, to stop all future harm, 

They strew'd its ashes on the breeze; 
They little guess'd each grain of these 

Convey'd the perfect charm. 

North, south, in rings and amulets, 

Throughout the crowded world 'tis 

borne; 
Which, as a fashion long outworn, 

Its ancient mind forgets. 



AMONG THE HEATHER. 

AN IRISH SONG. 

One evening walking out, I o'ertook a mod- 
est colleen, 

When the wind was blowing cool, and the 
harvest leaves were falling. 

" Is our road, by chance, the same ? Might 
we travel on together ? " 

" 0, 1 keep the mountain side," (she replied,) 
'"' among the heather." 

"Your mountain air is sweet when the days 

are long and sunny, 
When the grass grows round the rocks, and 

the whinbloom smells like honey; 
But the winter's coming fast, with its foggy, 

snowy weather, 
And you'll find it bleak and chill on your 

hill, among the heather." 



POEMS OF WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. 



She praised her mountain home and I'll 
praise it too, with reason, 

For where Molly is there's sunshine, and 
flow'rs at every season. 

Be the moorland black or white, does it sig- 
nify a feather, 

Now I know the way by heart, every part, 
among the heather ? 

The sun goes down in haste, and the night 

falls thick and stormy; 
Yet I'd travel twenty miles to the welcome 

that's before me 
Singing hie for Eskydun, in the teeth of 

wind and weather! 
Love'll warm me as I go through the snow, 

among the heather. 



THE STATUETTE. 

I DRBAm'd that I, being dead a hundred 

years, 
(In dream-world, death is free from waking 

fears) 
Stood in a City, in the market-place, 
And saw a snowy marble Statuette, 
Little, but delicately carven, set 
Within a corner-niche. The populace 
Look'd at it now and then in passing-by, 
And some with praise. "Who sculptured 

it ? " said I, 
And then my own name sounded in my ears; 
And, gently waking, in my bed I lay, 
With mind contented, in the newborn day. 



THE BALLAD OF SQUIRE CURTIS. 

A venerable white-hair'd Man, 

A trusty man and true, 
Told me this tale, as word for word 

I tell this tale to you. 



Squire Curtis had a cruel mouth, 
Though honey was on his tongue; 

Squire Curtis woo'd and wedded a wife, 
And she was fair and young. 

But he said, " She cannot love me; 

She watches me early and late; 
She is mild and good and cold of mood ; " — 

And his liking turn'd to hate. 

One autumn evening they rode through the 
woods, 

Far and far away; 
" The dusk is drawing round," she said, 

" I fear we have gone astray." 

He spake no word, but lighted down, 

And tied his horse to a tree; 
Out of the pillion he lifted her; 

" Tis a lonely place," said she. 

Down a forest-alley he walk'd, 

And she walk'd by his side; 
" Would Heaven we were at home!" she said, 

" These woods are dark and wide!" 

He spake no word, but still walk'd on; 

The branches shut out the sky; 
In the darkest place he turn'd him round — 

" Tis here that you must die." 

Once she shriek'd and never again; 

He stabbed her with his knife; 
Once, twice, thrice, and every blow 

Enough to take a life. 

A grave was ready; he laid her in; 

He fill'd it up with care; 
Under the brambles and fallen leaves 

Small sign of a grave was there. 

He rode an hour at a steady pace, 

Till unto his house came he ; 
On face or clothing, on foot or hand, 

No stain that eye could see. 

He boldly call'd to his serving-man, 
As he lighted at the door; 

" Your Mistress is gone on a sudden jour- 
ney- 
May stay for a month or more. 



POEMS OF SAMUEL l'EKGUSOX. 



' In two days I shall follow her; 
Let her waiting- woman know." 
<c Sir," said the serving-man, "My lady 
Came in an hour ago. " 

Squire Curtis sat him clown in a chair, 
And moved neither hand nor head. 

In there came the waiting-woman, 
"Alas the day !" she said. 

"Alas! good Sir," says the waiting-woman, 
"What aileth my Mistress dear, 

That she sits alone without sign or word ? 
There is something wrong, I fear ! 

*' Her face was white as any corpse 

As up the stair she pass'd; 
She never turn'd, she never spoke; 

And the chamber-door is fast. 



" She's waiting for you. " "Alie!" he shouts, 

And up to his feet doth start; 
" My wiife is buried in Brimley Holt, 

With three wounds in her heart. " 

They search'd the forest by lantern light, 

They search'd by dawn of day; 
At noon they found the bramble-brake 

And the pit where her body lay. 

They carried the murder'd woman home, 

Slow walking side by side. 
Squire Curtis he swung upon gallows-tree, 

But confess'd before he died. 

The venerable trusty Man 

With hair like drifted snow, 
Told me this tale, as from his wife 

He learn'd it long ago. 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



THE TAIN-QUEST. 



The Tain, in Irish bardic phrase, was an heroic poem commemorative of a foray or 
plundering expedition on a grander scale. It was the duty of the bard to be prepared, at 
call, with all the principal Tains, among which the Tain-Bo-Guailgne, or Cattle-Spoil 
of Quelny, occupied the first place; as in it were recorded the exploits of all the personages 
most famous in the earlier heroic cycle of Irish story — Conor Mac Nessa, Maev, Fergus 
Mac Boy, Conall Carnach, and Cuchullin (pronounced Eu-kullin). Conor, King of Ulster, 
contemporary and rival of Maev, Queen of Connaught, reigned at Emania (now the Navan,) 
near Armagh, about the commencement of the Christian era. He owed his first accession 
to the monarchy to the arts of his mother, Nessa, on whom Fergus, his predecessor in the 
kingly office and step-father, doated so fondly that she had been enabled to stipulate, as a 
condition of bestowing her hand, that Fergus should abdicate for a year in favor of her ! 
youthful son. The year had been indefinitely prolonged by the fascinations of Nessa, 
aided by the ability of Conor, who, although he concealed a treacherous and cruel disposi- 
tion under attractive graces of manners and person, ultimately became too popular to be 
displaced; and Fergus, whose nature disinclined him to the labors of government, had 
acquiesced in accepting as an equivalent the excitements of war and the chase, and the 
unrestricted pleasures of the revel. Associating with Cuchullin, Conall Carnach, Neesa, 
son of Usnach, and the other companions of the military order of the Bed Branch, he long j 
remained a faithful supporter of the throne of his step-son, eminent for his valor, gener- 
osity, and fidelity, as well as for his accomplishments as a hunter and a poet. 

At length occurred the tragedy which broke up these genial associations, and drove 
Fergus into the exile in which he died. Deirdra, a beautiful virgin, educated by Conor 
for his own companionship, saw and loved Neesa, who eloped with her, and dreading the 
wrath of the king, fled to Scotland, accompanied bv his brothers and clansmen. Conor, j 



II ' 




JIBEa IFIimt&WSOSTo 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 605 

contemplating the treachery he afterwards practised, acquiesced in the entreaty of his 
counsellors that the sons of Usnach should bo pardoned and restored to the service of their 
country; and to Fergus was confided the task of discovering their retreat and escorting 
them to Emania, under security of safe-conduct. The hunting-cry of Fergus was heard 
and recognized by the exiles whei'e they lay in green booths in the solitude of Glen Etive. 
On their return to Ireland, a temptation prepared for the simple-minded convivial Fergus 
detached him from his wards; and Deirdra and the Clan Usnach proceeded, under the 
guardianship of his sons, Buino and Ulan, to Emania. Here they were lodged in the house 
of the Eed Branch, where, although it soon became apparent that Conor intended their 
destruction, they repressed all appearance of distrust in their protectors, and calmly con- 
tinued playing chess, until, Buino having been bought over and Ulan slain in their de- 
fence, they were at length compelled to sally from the burning edifice, and were put to 
the sword; Deirdra being seized again into the king's possession. On this atrocious outrage 
Fergus took up arms, as well to regain his crown as to avenge the ( abuse of his safe- 
conduct; but Cuchnllin and the principal chiefs remaining faithful to Conor, the much 
injured ex-king betook himself, with others of the disgusted Ultonian nobles, to the: 
protection of Maev and Ailill, the Queen and King Consort of Connaught. Thus strength- 
ened, the warriors of Maev made frequent incursions into the territories of Conor, in which 
Keth and Beiilcu on the one hand, and Cucullin and Conall Carnach on the other, were 
the most renowned actors. After many years of desultory warfare, a pretext for the in- 
vasion of the rich plain of Louth arose, in consequence of a chief of the territory of 
Cuailgne having ill-treated the messengers of Maev, sent by her to negotiate the purchase 
of a notable dun bull, and the great expedition was thereupon organized which forms the 
subject of the Tain-Bo-Cuailgne. The guidance of the invading host, which traversed 
the counties of Koscommon, Longford, and Westmeath, was at first confided to Fergus;: 
and much of the interest of the story turns on the conflict in his breast between his duty 
towards his adopted sovereign, and his attachment to his old companions in arms and: 
former subjects. On the borders of Cuailgne, the invaders were encountered by Cuchullin, 
who alone detained them by successive challenges to single combat, until Conor and the- 
Ultonian chiefs were enabled to assemble their forces. In these encounters, Cuchullin 
also had the pain of combating former companions and fellow-pupils in arms; among- 
others, Ferdia, who had received his military education at the same school and under the 
same amazonian instructress at Dun Sciah, in view of the Cuchullin hills, in Skye. In the 
respite of their combat, the heroes kiss, in memory of their early affection. The name of 
the ford in which they fought (Ath-Firdiadh, now Ardee, in the county of Louth) per- 
petuates the memory of the fallen champion, and helps to fix the locality of these heroic 
passages. Maev, though ultimately overthrown at the great battle of Slewin in West- 
meath, succeeded in carrying off the spoils of Louth, including the dun bull of Cuailgne; 
and with Fergus, under the shelter of whose shield she effected her retreat through many 
sufferings and dangers, returned to Croghan, the Connacian royal residence, near Elphin, 
in Koscommon. Here she bore to the now aged hero (at a birth, says the story) three 
sons, from whom three of the great native families still trace their descent, and from the 
eldest of whom the county of Kerry derives its name. A servant of Ailill, at the com- 
mand of the king, avenged the injury done his master's bed by piercing Fergus with a. 
spear, while the athlete poet swam, defenceless, bathing in Loch Ein. The earliest copies 
of the Tain- Bo- Cuailgne are prefaced by the wild legend of its loss and recovery in the 
time of Guary, King of Connaught, in the sixth century, by Murgen, son of the chief poet 
Sanchan, under circumstances which have suggested the following poem. The Ogham 
characters, referred to in the piece, were formed by lines cut tally-wise on the corners of 
stone pillars, and somewhat resembled Scandinavian Eunes, examples of which, carved on 
squared staves, may still be seen in several museums. The readers of the Tain-Bo- 
Cuailgne, as it now exists, have to regret the overlaying of much of its heroic and pathetic 
material 'by turgid extravagances and exaggerations, the additions apparently of later 
copyists. 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON- 



THE TAIN-QUEST. 

" Bkar the cup to'Sanchan Torpest; yield the 

bard his poet's meed ; 
What we've heard was but a foretaste ; lays 

more lofty now succeed. 
Though my stores be emptied well-nigh, twin 

bright cups there yet remain, — 
Win them with the Raid of Cuailgne; chant us, 

Bard, the famous Tain /" 

Thus, in hall of Gort, spake Guary ; for the king, 

let truth be told, 
Bounteous though he was, was weary giving 

goblets, giving gold, 
Giving aught the bard demanded ;' but, when 

for the Tain he call'd, 
Sanchan from his seat descended; shame and 

anger fired the Scald. 

■" Well," he said, " 'tis known through Erin, 

known through Alba, main and coast, 
Since the Staff-Book's disappearing over sea, the 

Tain is lost : 
For the lay was cut in tallies on the corners of 

the staves 
Patrick in his pilgrim galleys carried o'er the 

Ictian waves. 

" Well 'tis kuown that Erin's Ollavcs, met in Tara 

Luachra's hall, 2 
Fail'd to find the certain knowledge of the Tain 

amongst them all, 
Though there there sat sages hoary, men who in 

their day had known 
All the foremost kings of story ; but the lay was 

lost and gone. 



" Wherefore from that fruitless session went I 

forth myself in quest 
Of the Tain ; nor intermission, even for hours 

of needful rest, 



1 The exactions of the bards were so intolerable, that the early 
Irish more than ojce endenvored to rid themselves of the order, 
Lint without success. The Aeir or satire of the bard was deemed 
u instrument of physical mischief, capahle of destroying the life 
anil property, as well as the peace of mind, of the person against 
whom it was directed. Rather than incur its terrors, the early 
Irish sntimitted to bardicexactions which would appear incredible, 
if we did not know that even within the present generation the 
same belief in the power of tlie Shut (vaUs) existed in the East 

"■The seat of the early kings of West Munster, in the moun- 
tainous region of Desmond, site unknown: the scene of a session 
of the bards in the Sixth, and of an exploit similar to the burning 
of Persepolis (magna componere parvis), by Cuchullin and the 
Comiianions of the Ked Branch, in a fit of intoxication, iu the 
First Century. 



Gave I to my sleepless searches, till I Erin, hill 

and plain, 
Courts and castles, cells and churches, roam'd 

and ransack'd, but in vain. 

" Dreading shame on hardship branded, should 
I e'er be put to own 

Any lay of right demanded of me was not right- 
ly known, 

Over sea to Alba sped I, where, amid the hithei 
Gael, 3 

Dalriad bards had fill'd already all Cantyre with 
song and tale. 

" Who the friths and fords shall reckon ; who 
the steeps I cross'd shall count, 

From the cauldron-pool of Brecan eastward o'er 
the Alban mount ; 4 

From the stone fort of Dun Britan, set o'er cir- 
cling Clyde on high, 5 

Northward to the thunder-smitten, jagg'd Cu- 
chullin peaks of Skye ? 

" Great Cuchullin's name and glory fill'd the land 
from north to south ; 

Deirdra's and Clan Usnach's story rife I found 
in every mouth ; 

Yea, and where the whitening surges spread be- 
low the Herdsman Hill, 6 

Echoes of the shout of Fergus haunted all Glen 
Etive still. 



• Iar-Gael— Argyle, 

* Corrievreakan, the maelstrom of the Orcades. Like other 
famous whirlpools, it no longer answers to the ancient account o( 
its terrors. The picturesque force of the description in Cormac's 
Glossary is enhanced by our inability to translate the whole of 









" Coire-Brecain, i. e., a great vortex between Ere and Alba to 
the north, i. e„ the conflux of the different seas, viz., the sea which 
encompasses Ere at the northwest, the sea which encompassed 
Alba at the northwest, and the sea to the south, between Ere and 
Alba. They rush at each other after the likeness of a luailhrindf, 
and each is buried into the other like the oircel tairechta, and 
they are sucked down into the gulf so as to form a gaping caul- 
dron, which would receive all Ere into its wide mouth. The 
waters are again thrown up, so that their belching, roaring, osd 
thundering are heard amid the clouds, and they boil like a cauldron 
upon a fire." 

6 Dunbarton, formerly AiUClyde, the stone fort of the Clyde. 

• A feeble effort to convey something of the solitary grandeur 
of the valley around Loch Etive. Had M'Cullocb known the de- 
tails of the noble romance, the traces of which he still found sur 
viving in this retreat of the sons of TJsnach, it might have added 
something to his own eujoyment of the scene, but it could uot 
have increased the impressiveuess of his description. "Thereto 
a gigantic simplicity ahout the whole scene, which would render 
the presence of these objects, and of that variety which constitute 
picturesque 
Loch F 
thi 



cturesque beauty, intrusive and impertinent I know not it 
>ch Etive could bear an ornament without an infringement on 
at aspect of solitary vastness which it presents throughout; nor , 
there one. The rocks and bays on the shore, which might olse- 



where attract attention, i 



here swallowed 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



■" Echoes of the shout of warning heard by Us- 
nach's exiled youths, 

When, between the night and morning, sleeping 
in their hunting-booths, 

Deirdra dreamt the death-bird hooted ; Neesa, 
wakirjg wild with joy, 

Cried, ' A man of Erin shouted ! welcome Fer- 
gus, son of Roy !' 

•" Wondrous shout, from whence repeated, even 

as up the answering hills 
Echo's widening wave proceeded, spreads the 

sound of song that fills 
All the echoing waste of ages, tele and lay and 

choral strain, 
But the chief delight of sages and of kings was 

still the Tain, 



u Made when mighty Maev invaded Cuailgnia 

for her brown-bright bull ; 
Fergus was the man that made it, for he saw the 

war in full, 
And in Maev's own chariot mounted, sang what 

pass'd before his eyes, 
As you'd hear it now recounted, knew I but 

where Fergus lies. 



ie surrounding mountains, and the wide and sim- 
ple expanse of the lake. Hero also, as at Loch Coruisk and Glen 
■Sanicks, we experience the effect arising from simplicity of form. 
At the first view, the whole expanse appears comprised within a 
mile or two ; nor is it until we find the extremity still remote and 
oiisty as we advance, and the aspect of every thing remaining un- 
changed, that we begin to feel and comprehend the vast and over- 
whelming magnitude of all around. It is hence also, perhaps, as 
!n that singular valley (Glen Sanicks). that there is here that sense 
of oternal silence and repose, as if in this spot creation had forever 
Jlept The billows that are seen whitening the shore are inaudible, 
the cascade pours down the declivity unheard, and the clouds are 
hurried along the tops of the mountains before the blast, but no 
cound of the storm reaches the ear. There is something in the 
coloring of this spot which is equally singular, and which adds 
much to the general sublime simplicity of the whole. Bocks of 
gray granite, mixed with portions of a subdued brown, rise all 
round from the water's edge to the summits of Cruaclian and 
Buachaill Etive (i. e., the Herdsman of Etive), which last, like a 
vast pyramid, crowns the whole. The unapprehended distance 
lends to these solar tints an atmospheric hue which seems as if it 
were ihe local coloring of the scenery, and this brings the entire 
landscape to one tone of sobriety and broad repose. As no form 
protrudes, so no color intrudes itself to break in upon the consis- 
tency of the character ; even the local colors at our feet partake of 
the general tranquillity; and all around, water, rock, and hill, and 
sky, is one broadness of peace and silence, a silence that speaks to 
♦.he eye and to the mind. The sun shone bright, yet even the sun 
seemed not to shine: it was as if it had never penetrated to this 
spot since the beginning of time; and, if its beams glittered on 
some gray rock or silvered the ripple of the shore, or the wild- 
flowers that peeped from beneath their mossy stones, the effect 
was lo>t amid the universal hue, as of a northern endless twilight 
■that reigned around. 1 ' — Tour in the Western Highlands, vol it- 
>16L 



" Bear me witness, Giant Bouchaill, herdsman of 
the mountain drove, 

How with spell and spkit-struggle many a mid- 
night hour I strove 

Back to life to call the author ! for before I'd 
hear it said, 

' Neither Sanchan knew it,' rather would I learn 
it from the dead ; 

"Ay, and pay the dead their teaching with the 
one price spirits crave, 

When the hand of magic, reaching past the bar- 
riers of the grave, 

Drags the struggling phantom lifeward : — but 
the Ogham on his stone 

Still must mock us undecipher'd ; grave and lay 
alike unknown. 

" So that put to shame the direst, here I stand 

and own, King, 
Thou a lawful lay requirest Sanchan Toipest 

cannot sing. 
Take again the gawds you gave me, — cup uor 

crown no more will I ; — 
Son, from further insult save me : lead me hence, 

and let me die." 

Leaning on young Murgen's shoulder — Murgea 

was his youngest son — 
Jeer'd of many a lewd beholder, Sanchan from 

the hall has gone : 
But, when now beyond Loch Lurgan, three days 

thence he reach'd his home, 1 
"Give thy blessing, Sire," said Murgen. — 

" Whither wouldst thou, son ?" — " To Rome ; 

"■ Rome, or, haply, Tours of Martin ; wheresoever 

over ground 
Hope can deem that tidings certain of the lay 

may yet be found." 
Answer'd Eimena his brother, "Not alone thou 

leav'st the west, 
Though thou ne'er shouldst find another, Til be 

comrade of the quest." 

Eastward, breadthwise, over Erin straightway 

travell'd forth the twain, 
Till with many days' wayfaring Murgen fainted 

by Loch Ein : 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



' Dear my brother, thou art weary : I for present 

aid am flown ; 
Thou for my returning tarry here beside this 

Standing Stone." 

Shone the sunset, red and solemn : Murgen, where 

he leant, observed 
Down the corners of the column letter-strokes 

of Ogtbam carved. 
" 'Tis, belike, a burial pillar," said he, " and these 

shallow lines 
Hold some warrior's name of valor, could I 

rightly spell the signs." 

Letter then by letter tracing, soft he breathed the 

sound of each ; 
Sound and sound then interlacing, lo, the signs 

took form of speech ; 
And with joy and wonder mainly thrilling, part 

a-thrill with fear, 
Murgen read the legend plainly, " Fergus, son 

of Rot, is here." 

** Lo," said he, " my quest is ended, knew I but 

the spell to say ; 
Underneath my feet extended, lies the man that 

made the lay : 
Yet, though spell nor incantation know L, were 

the words but said 
That could speak my soul's elation, I, methinks, 

could raise the dead. 

fc Be an arch-bard's name my warrant. Murgen, 

son of Sanchan, here, 
Vow'd upon a venturous errand to the door-sills 

of Saint Pierre, 
Where, beyond Slieve Alpa's barrier, sits the 

Coaib of the keys, 1 
I conjure thee, buried warrior, rise and give my 

wanderings ease. 

"Tis not death whose forms appalling strew the 

Bteep with pilgrims' graves, 
'Tis not fear of snow-slips falling, nor of ice-clefts' 

azure caves 
Daunts me; bnt I dread if Romeward I must 

travel till the Tain 
Crowns my quest, these footsteps homeward I 

shall never turn again. 



" I at parting left behind me aged sire and 

mother dear ; 
Who a parent's love shall find me ere again I 

ask it here ? 
Dearer too than site or mother, ah, how dear 

these tears may tell, 
I, at parting, left another ; left a maid who love» 

me well. 

" Ruthful clay, thy rigors soften 1 Fergus, hear, 

thy deaf heaps through, 
Thou, thyself a lover often, aid a lover young 

and true ; 
Thou, the favorite of maidens, for a fair young 

maiden's sake, 
I conjure thee by the radiance of thy Nessa'» 

eyes, awake ! 

" Needs there adjuration stronger ? Fergus, thou 
hadst once a son : 

Even than I was Ulan younger when the glori- 
ous feat was done, — 

When in hall of Red Branch biding Deirdra and 
Clan Usnach sate, 

In thy guarantee confiding, though the foe was 
at their gate. 

"Though their guards were bribed and flying, 

and their door-posts wrapp'd in flame, 
Calmly on thy word relying bent they o'er the 

chessman game, 
Till with keen words sharp and grievous Deirdra 

cried through smoke and fire, 
' See the sons of Fergus leave us : traitor sons 

of traitor sire !' 

" Mild the eyes that did upbraid her, when young 

Ulan rose and spake — 
• If my father be a traitor ; if my brother for the 

sake 
Of a bribe bewray his virtue, yet while lives the 

sword I hold, 
Illan Finn will not desert you, not for fire and 

not for gold !' 

" And as hawk that strikes on pigeons, sped on 

wrath's unswerving wing 
Through the tyrant's leaguering legions, smiting 

chief and smiting king, 
Smote he full on Conor's gorget, till the wave* 

of welded steel 
Round the monarch's magic target rang thei* 

loudest 'larum peal. 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



"Rang the disc where wizard hammers, miugling 

in the wavy field, 
Tempest-wail and breaker-clamors, forged the 

wondrous Ocean shield, 
Answering to whose stormy noises, oft as clang'd 

by deadly blows, 
All the echoing kindred voices of the seas of Erin 



",Moan'd each sea-chafed promontory; soar'd 

and wail'd white Cleena's wave ;' 
Rose the Tonn of Inver Rory, and through col- 

umn'd chasm and cave 
Reaching deep with roll of anger, till Dunsever- 

ick's dungeons reel'd, 
Roar'd responsive to the clangor struck from 

Conor's magic shield. 



" Ye, remember, red wine quaffing in Dunsever- 

ick's halls of glee, 
Heard the moaning, heard the chafing, heard the 

thundering from the sea ; 
Knew that peril compass'd Conor, came, and on 

Emania's plain 
Found his fraud and thy dishonor ; Deirdra rav- 

ish'd, Ulan slain. 



" Now, by love of son for father, — son, who ere 

he'd hear it said — 
' Neither Sanchan knew it,' rather seeks to learn 

it from the dead ; 
Rise, and give me back the story that the twin 

gold cups shall win ; 
Rise, recount the great Cow-Foray I rise for love 

of Ulan Finn ! 



» In the Irish triads— compositions in the Welsh taste— the three 
waves (tonna) of Erin are, "the wave of Tnath, and the wave of 
Cleena. und the fishy-streaming wave of Inver-Eory." The site 
of the first is supposed to be the great strand of the bay of Dun- 
dalk ; that of the wave of Cleena (elwdhna) is Glandore Harbor, 
In the County of Cork. " It emanates from the eastern side of the 
harbor's entrance, where the cliffs facing the south and southwest 
are hollowed into caverns, of which Dean Swift has given in his 
poem, Carberim Bwpes, an accurate, though general, description. 
When the wind is northeast, oflf shore, the waves resounding in 
these caverns send forth a deep, loud, hollow, monotonous roar, 
which in a calm night is peculiarly Impressive on the imagination, 
producing sensations either of melancholy or fear.' 1 — O'Donovan, 
An-nah of the Four Masters, a. d. 1657. The wave oflnver-Eory 
is now represented by the "Tonns," which send forth their warn- 
ing voices in almost all weathers, from the strand of Magilligan, 
near the mouth of the river Bann. The sympathy between the 
royal shield and the surrounding seas of the kingdom is one of 
those original fancies only to be found amongst a primitive and 
highly poetic people. 



" Still he stirs not. Love of woman thou re- 

gard'st not, Fergus, now : 
Love of children, instincts human, care for these 

no more hast thou : 
Wider comprehensions, deeper insights to the 

dead belong : — 
Since for Love thou wakest not, sleeper, yet 

awake for sake of Song I 

" Thou, the first in rhythmic cadence dressing 

life's discordant tale, 
Wars of chiefs and loves of maidens, gavest the 

Poem to the Gael ; 
Now they've lost their noblest measure, and in 

dark days hard at hand, 
Song shall be the only treasure left them in their 

native land. 

" Not for selfish gawds or baubles dares my sou.l 

disturb the graves : 
Love consoles, but song ennobles ; songless men 

are meet for slaves : 
Fergus, for the Gael's sake, waken ! never let 

the scornful Gauls 
'Mongst our land's reproaches reckon lack of Song 

within our halls !" 

Fergus rose. A mist ascended with him, and a 
flash was seen 

As of brazen sandals blended with a mantle's 
wafture green ; 

But so thick the cloud closed o'er him, Eimena, 
return'd at last, 

Found not on the field before him but a mist- 
heap gray and vast. 

Thrice to pierce the hoar recesses faithful Eimena 

essay'd ; 
Thrice through foggy wildernesses back to open 

air he stray'd ; 
Till a deep voice through the vapors fill'd the 

twilight far and near, 
And the Night her starry tapers kindling, stoop'd 

from heaven to hear. 

Seem'd as though the skiey Shepherd back to 

earth had cast the fleece 
Envying gods of old caught upward from the 

darkening shrines of Greece ; 
So the white mists curl'd and glisten'd, so from 

heaven's expanses bare, 
Stars enlarging lean'd and listen'd down the 

emptied depths of air. 



610 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



All night long by mists surrounded Murgen lay 

in vapory bars ; 
All night long the deep voice sounded 'neath the 

keen, enlarging stars : 
But when, on the orient verges, stars grew dim 

and mists retired, 
Rising by the stone of Fergus, Murgen stood, a 

man inspired. 

41 Back to Sanchan ! — Father, hasten, ere the 

hour of power be past; 
Ask not how obtain'd, but listen to the lost lay 

found at last !" 
* Yea, these words have tramp of heroes in them ; 

and the marching rhyme 
Rolls the voices of the Eras down the echoing 

steeps of Time." 

Not till all was thrice related, thrice recital full 

essay'd, 
Sad and shame-faced, worn and faded, Murgen 

sought the faithful maid. 
" Ah, so haggard ; ah, so altered ; thou in life 

and love so strong !" 
"Dearly purchased," Murgen falter'd, "life and 

love I've sold for soQg !" 

" Woe is me, the losing bargain \ what can song 

the dead avail ?" 
"Fame immortal," murmur'd Murgen, " long as 

lay delights the Gael." 
"Fame, alas ! the price thou chargest not repays 

one virgin tear." 
"Yet the proud revenge I've purchased for my 

sire I deem not dear." 

So, again to Gort the splendid, when the drink- 
ing boards were spread, 

Sanchan, as of old attended, came and sat at 
table-head. 

"Bear the cup to Sanchan Torpest : twin gold 
goblets, Bard, are thine, 

If with voice and string thou harpest, Tain-Eo- 
Cutiilyne, line for line." 

" Yea, with voice and string I'll chant it." Mur- 
gen to his father's knee 

Set the harp : no prelude wanted, Sanchan struck 
the master key, 

And, as bursts the brimful river all at once from 
caves of Cong, 

Forth at once, and once forever, leap'd the tor- 
rent of the song, 



Floating on a brimful torrent, men g.o down and 

banks go by : 
Caught adown the lyric current, Guary, captured, 

car and eye, 
Heard no more the courtiers jeering, saw jut 

more the walls of Gort, 
Creeve Roe's meads instead appearing, and Em«- 

nia's royal fort. 

Vision chasing sp.endid vision, Sanchan roll'd 

the rhythmic scene; 
They that mock'd in lewd derision, now, at gaze, 

with wondering mien, 
Sate, and, as the glorying master sway'd the 

tightening reins of song, 
Felt emotion's pulses faster — fancies faster bound 

along. 

Pity dawn'd on savage faces, when for love of 

captive Crunn, 
Macha, in the ransom-races, girt her gravid loins, 

to run 1 



1 No more striking Instance of the crnelty of savage l 
can be conceived than this story of Madia, which Is to;d with 
much pathetic force ami simplicity in a poem in the DinnHPnehaM, 
one of the tracts preserved in the Book of Lecan. in the Boyal 
Irish Academy. The Dinnsenchas itself is alleged tn he in !'.« 
at least, a compilation •( the Sixth Century. 

One day thei ^ -lame with glowing soul, 

To the assemW} of Conchohar, 

The gifted man horn the eastern wave, 



be, in part 



Crun 



It was then were brought 
Two steeds to which I see no equals, 
Into the race-course, without concealment, 
At which the King of TJladh then presided 

Although there were not the peers of these 
Upon the plain, of a yoke of steeds, 
Crunn, the rash hairy man, said 
That his wife was fleeter, though then 

Detain ye the truthful man, 
Said Conor, the chief of battles, 
Until his famous wife comes here, 
To nobly run with my great steeds. 

Let one man go firth to bring her, 
Said the king of levelled stout spears, 
Till she comes from the wavy sea, 
To save the wise-spoken Crunn. 



' greatly wounding chieftk 



A hi 



The assembly of i 
Her two names in 
Were Bright Griu 

Her father was not weak in his house, 
Midir of Bri Leitli, son of Celtchar ; 
In bis mansion in the west. 
She was I be sun of wornen-assembltos- 

When she had come — in sobbing words, 
She begL'eil immediately for respite, 
From tho host of assembled clans, 
Until the time of her delivery was past 

The Ultonlnns gave their plighted word, 
Should she not run— no idle boast — 
That he should not have a prosperous reij 
From tt e hosts of swords and spears. 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



"Gainst the fleet Ultonian horses ; and, when 

Deirdra on the road 
Headlong dash'd her 'mid the corses, brimming 

eyelids overflow'd. 

Light of manhood's generous ardor, under brows 
relaxing shone ; 

When, mid-ford, on Uladh's border, young Cu- 
chullin stood alone, 

Maev and air her hosts withstanding: — "Now, 
for love of knightly play, 

Yield the youth his soul's demanding ; let the 
hosts their marchings stay, 

* Till the death he craves be given ; and, upon 

his burial-stone 
Champion-praises duly graven, make his name 

and glory known ; 
For, in speech-containing token, age to ages never 

gave 
Salutation better spoken, than, 'Behold a hero's 

grave. " 

What, another and another, and he still for com- 
bat calls ? 

Ah, the lot on thee, his brother sworn in arms, 
Ferdia, falls ; 

And the hall with wild applauses sobb'd like 
women ere they wist, 

When the champions in the pauses of the deadly 
combat kiss'd. 

Now, for love of land and cattle, while Cuchullin 

in the fords 
Stays the march of Connaught's battle, ride and 

rouse the Northern Lords ; 



Then fitrfpt the fleet and silent dame. 
And cast loose her hair around her head, 
And started, without terror or fail, 
To join In the race, but not its pleasure. 

The steeds were brought to her eastern side, 
To urge tbcm past her in manner like; 
To the Ultonians of accustomed victwy, 
The gallant riders were men of kin. 

Although the monarch's steeds were swifter 
At all times in the native race, 
The woman was fleeter, with no great effort, 
The monarch's steeds were then the slower. 

As she reached the final goal, 
And nobly won the uniple pledge, 
She brought forth twins without delay, 
Before the hosts of the Red Branch fort, 

A son and a daughter together. 



Beeves's Ancient Churches of Armagh, App., p. 42. 



Swift as angry eagles wing them toward the plun- 

der'd eyrie's call, 
Thronging from Dun Dealga 1 bsing them, bring 

them from the Red Branch hall ! 



Heard ye not the tramp of armies? Hark! 

amid the sudden gloom, 
'Twas the stroke of Conall's war-mace sounded 

through the startled room ; 
And, while still the hall grew darker, king and 

courtier, chill'd with dread, 
Heard the rattling of the war-car of Cuchullin 

overhead. 

Half in wonder, half in terror, loth to stay and 
loth to fly, 

Seem'd to each beglamor'd hearer shades of kings 
went thronging by : 

But the troubled joy of wonder merged at last 
in mastering fear, 

As they heard, through pealing thunder, "Fer- 
gus, son of Roy, is here !" 

Brazen-sandall'd, vapor-shrouded, moving in an 

icy blast, 
Through the doorway terror-crowded, up the 

tables Fergus pass'd : — 
" Stay thy hand, O harper, pardon ! cease the 

wild unearthly lay ! 
Murgen, bear thy sire his guerdon." Murgen 

sat, a shape of clay. 

"Bear him on his bier beside me : never more in 

halls of Gort 
Shall a niggard king deride me ; slaves, of San- 

chan make their sport I 
But because the maiden's yearnings needs must 

also be condoled, 
Hers shall be the dear-bought earnings, hers the 

twin-bright cups of gold." 

" Cups," she cried, " of bitter drinkingj ding them 

far as arm can throw ! 
Let them, in the ocean sinking, out of sight and 

memory go ! 



1 Dun-Dealqa, giving name to Dundalk. the residence of Cn- 
chullin. There are few better ascertained sites in Irish topography 
than thnt of the actual plsce of abode of this hero. It is the great 
oarlhen mound, now called the moat of Castletown, which rises 
conspicuously over the woods of Lord Rodeo's demesne, on the 
left of the traveller leaving Dundalk for the north. 



G12 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



Lei the joinings of the rhythm, let the links of 

sense and sound 
Of the Tain-Bo perish with them, lost as though 

they'd ne'er been found !" 

So it comes, the lay, recover'd once at such a 
deadly cost, 

Ere one full recital suffer'd, once again is all but 
lost: 

For, the maiden's malediction still with many a 
blemish -stain 

Clings in coarser garb of fiction round the frag- 
ments that remain. 



THE ABDICATION OF FERGUS 
MAC ROY. 

Once, ere God was crucified, 
I was King o'er Uladh wide : 
King, by law of choice and birth, 
O'er the fairest realm of Earth. 

1 was head of Rury's race ; 
Emain was my dwelling-place ;' 
Right and Might were mine ; nor less 
Stature, strength, and comeliness. 

Neither lack'd I love's delight, 
Nor the glorious meeds of fight. 
All on earth was mine could bring 
Life's enjoyment to a king. 



1 The petty kings of TJladh (Ulster), who reigned at Eraania, 
claimed to derive their pedigree through Rory More, of the line 
of Ir, one of the fabled sons of Milesius, as other provincial Reguli 
traced theirs to Eber and Heremon. A list of thirty-one of these 
occupants of Emania before its destruction, in a. d. 832, compiled 
from the oldest of the Irish annals, has been published by O'Conor 
(Eer. Bib. SS., vol. ii., p. 66), in which Fergus, son of Lelde, the 
fourteenth in succession from Cimbaeth, the founder, has twelve 
years assigned to him, ending in the year b. o. 81 ; after whom 
appears Conor, son of Nessa, having a reign of sixty years. 

Dr. Reeves, in his learned tract, " The Ancient Churches of Ar- 
magh," has collected the native evidences of the early existence of 
Emania, and of the transition of its original name Emain (ap- 
pearing as IJewynna in 1374, as Eawnyn in 1524, and -A^aujarc in 
1633) into its present corrupt form of " the Navan." Tho remains, 
situate in tlie townland of Navan, and parish of Eglish, about two 
miles west from Armagh, are now becoming rapidly obliterated. 
A few years ago, the external circumvallation, enclosing n space 
of about twelve acres, was complete. Now, through one-third of 
the circuit, the rampart has been levelled into the ditch, and the 
surface submitted to the plough. Application was made in vain 
to those who might have stayed the destruction : they could not 
be induced to believe that any historic monument worth preserv- 
ing existed in Ireland. Tet a place with a definite history of sir 
hundred years ending in the Fourth Century of the Christian era, 
to not easily tonid elsewhere on this side of the Alps. 



Much I loved the jocund chase, 
Much the horse and chariot race : 
Much I loved the deep carouse, 
Quaffing in the Red Branch House.' 

But, in Council call'd to meet, 
Loved I not the judgment-seat; 
And the suitors' questions hard 
Won but scantly my regard. 

Rather would I, all alone, 
Care and state behind me thrown, 
Walk the dew through showery gleam* 
O'er the meads, or by the streams, 

Chanting, as the thoughts might rise, 
Unimagined melodies ; 
While with sweetly-pungent smart 
Secret happy tears would start. 

Such was I, when, in the dance, 
Nessa did bestow a glance, 
And my soul that inomeut took 
Captive in a single look. 

I am but an empty shade, 
Far from life and passion laid ; 
Yet does sweet remembrance thrill 
All my shadowy being still. 

Nessa had been Fathna's spouse, 
Fathna of the Royal house, 
And a beauteous boy had borne hiu» 
Fourteen summers did adorn him : 

Yea ; thou deem'st it marvellous, 
That a widow's glance should thus. 
Turn from lure of maidens' eyes 
All a young king's fantasies. 

Yet if thou hadst known but half 
Of the joyance of her laugh, 
Of the measures of her walk, 
Of the music of her talk, 

Of the witch'ry of her wit, 
Even when smarting under it, — 
Half the sense, the charm, the grace, 
Thou hadst worshipp'd in my place. 



2 This appears to have been a detached fortress, in the nature of 
a military barrack and hospital, depending on the principal fort. 
The townland of Creeve Roe, i. e., " Red Branch," adjoining the- 
Navan on the west, still preserves the name. 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



613 



And, besides, the thoughts I wove 
Into songs of war and love, 
She alone of all the rest 
Felt them with a perfect zest. 


Till upon a day in court 
Rose a plea of weightier sort : 
Tangled as a briery thicket 
Were the rights and wrongs intricate 


"Lady, in thy smiles to live 
Tell me but the boon to give, 
Yea, I lay in gift complete 
Crown and sceptre at thy feet." 


Which the litigants disputed, 
Challenged, mooted, and confuted ; 
Till, when all the plea was ended, 
Naught at all I comprehended. 


" Not so great the boon I crave : 
Hear the wish my soul would have ;" 
And she glanced a loving eye 
On the stripling standing by : — 


Scorning an affected show 
Of the thing I did not know, 
Yet my own defect to hide, 
I said, " Boy-judge, thou decide." 


" Conor is of age to learn ; 
Wisdom is a king's concern; 
Conor is of royal race, 
Yet may sit in Fathna's place. 


Conor, with unalter'd mien, 
In a clear sweet voice serene, 
Took in hand the tangled skein 
And began to make it plain. 


" Therefore, king, if thou wouldst prove 
That I have indeed thy love, 
On the judgment-seat permit 
Conor by thy side to sft, 


As a sheep-dog sorts his cattle, 
As a king arrays his battle, 
So, the facts on either side 
He did marshal and divide. 


".That by use the youth may draw 
Needful knowledge of the Law." 
I with answer was not slow, 
" Be thou mine, and be it so." 


Every branching side-dispute 
Traced he downward to the root 
Of the strife's main stem, and there 
Laid the ground of difference bare. 


I am but a shape of air, 
Far removed from love's repair ; 
Yet, were mine a living frame 
Once again, I'd say the same. 


Then to scops of either cause 
Set the compass of the laws, 
This adopting, that rejecting, — 
Reasons to a head collecting, — 


Thus, a prosperous wooing sped, 
Took I Nessa to my bed, 
While in council and debate 
Conor daily by me sate. 


As a charging cohort goes 
Through and over scatter'd foes, 
So, from point to point, he brought 
Onward still the weight of thought 


Modest was his mien in sooth, 
Beautiful the studious youth, 
Questioning with earnest gaze 
All the reasons and the ways 


Through all error and confusion, 
Till he set the clear conclusion 
Standing like a king alone, 
All things adverse overthrown, 


In the which, and why because, 
Kings administer the Laws. 
Silent so with looks intent 
Sat he till the year was spent. 


And gave judgment clear and sound :— 
Praises filFd the hall around ; 
Yea, the man that lost the cause 
Hardly could withhold applause. 


But the strifes the suitors raised 
Bred me daily more distaste, 
Every faculty and passion 
Sunk in sweet intoxication. 


By the wondering crowd surrounded, 
I sat shamefaced and confounded. 
Envious ire awhile oppress'd me 
Till the nobler thought possess' d me ; 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



And I rosa, and on my feet 
Standing by the judgment-seat, 
Took the circlet from my head, 
Laid it on the bench, and said — 

" Men of Uladh, I resign 

That which is not rightly mine, 

That a worthier than I 

May your judge's place supply. 

" Lo, it is no easy thing 
For a man to be a king 
Judging well, as should behoove 
One who claims a people's love. 

" Uladh's judgmettf-seat to fill 
I have neither wit nor will. 
One is here may justly claim 
Both the function and the name. 

" Conor is of royal blood ; 
Fair he is ; I trust him good ; 
Wise he is we all may say 
Who have heard his words to-day. 

" Take him therefore in my room, 
Letting me the place assume — 
Office but with life to end — 
Of his councillor and friend." 

So young Conor gain'd the crown I 
So I laid the kingship down ; 
Laying with it, as it went, 
All I knew of discontent. 



TB E HEALING OF CONALL CARNACH. 

Conor is Bald to have heard of the Passion of our Lord from a 
feoman captain sent to demand tribute at Emanla. He died of a 
wound inflicted by Kelb, son of Magach, and nephew of Maev, 
with a ball from a sling; having been inveigled within reach of 
the missile by certain Connaught ladies. His son, Forbaid, char- 
acteristically avenged his death by the assassination of Maev, whom 



the i 



. of bathing. Notwii 



the ; 






iCn 



nding the repulsiv 
or, such as the crui 



of the fuot-r.'ic? upon Macha {0 licentiamfnroris, agrcB reipub- 
Kc« gemitu proseqjiendam .')' and the betrayal of the sons of 
Canach, and abduction of Deirdra, the best part of Irish heroic 
tradition connects itself with his reign and period, preceding by 
nearly three centuries the epoch of Cormac Mac Art, and tho 
Fenian or Irish Ossianic romances. The survivor of the men of 

toresque legends, one of the mO't remarkable of which affords the 
groundwork for tho ibllowing verses. 



is., De Improb. diet, etfact. 



O'er Slieve Few,* with noiseless tramping through 
the heavy-drifted snow, 

Be&lcu,* Connacia's champion, in his chario* 
tracks the foe ; 

And anon far off discerneth, in the mountain- 
hollow white, 

Slinger Eeth and Conall Carnach mingling, hand 
to hand, in fight 

Swift the charioteer his coursers urged across the 

wintry glade : 
Hoarse the cry of Keth and hoarser seem'd tc 

come demanding aid ; 
But through wreath and swollen runnel ere the 

car could reach anigh, 
Keth lay dead, and mighty Conall bleeding lay 

at point to die. 

Whom beholding spent and pallid, Bealcu exult- 
ing cried, 

"Oh, thou ravening wolf of Uladh, where is now 
thy northern pride ? 

What can now that crest audacious, what that 
pale, defiant brow, 

Once the bale-star of Connacia's ravaged fields, 
avail thee now ?" 

" Taunts are for reviling women," faintly Conall 

made reply : 
"Wouldst thou play the manlier foeman, end 

my pain and let me die. 
Neither deem thy blade dishonor'd that with 

Keth's a deed it share, 
For the foremost two of Connaught feat enough 

and fame to spare." 

" No, I will not ! bard shall never in Dunseveiick 

hall make boast 
That to quell one northern riever needed two oi 

Croghan's host. 4 
But because that word thou'st spoken, if but life 

enough remains, 
Thou shalt hear the wives of Croghan clap their 

hands above thy chains. 



» A mountainous district the name of which is preserved in the 
baronies of tipper and Lower Fews, on the borders of the cnunt<» 
of Louth and Armagh, the scene of many of the northern bardic 

3 Pronounced BaynWcii. 

4 Rath Croghan, the residence of the Regull of Connaught, 
erected by Eochaid. father of M.iev. Its remains including nes 
inscribed in the Ogham character, and apparently of ■ tievtti data, 
exist two inilea northwest of Tulslc, in the county Roscommon. 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



615 



" Yea, if life enough but linger, that the leech 

may make thee whole, 
Meet to satiate the anger that beseems a warrior's 

soul, 
Best of leech-craft I'll purvey thee ; make thee 

whole as healing can ; 
And in single combat slay thee, Con naught man 

to Ulster man." 

Binding him in five-fold fetter, 1 wrists and ankles, 

wrists and neck, 
To his car's uneasy litter Bealcu upheaved the 

wreck 
Of the broken man and harness ; but he started 

with amaze 
When he felt the northern war-mace, what a 

weight is was to raise. 

Westward then through Breiffny's borders, with 

his captive and his dead, 
Track'd by bands of fierce applauders, wives and 

shrieking widows, sped ; 
And the chain'd heroic carcass on the fair-green 

of Moy Slaught 2 
Casting down, proclaim'd his purpose, and bade 

Lee the leech be brought. 



1 This, in the expressive form of the Irish idiom, is termed "the 
fettering of the five smalls." The quaint translator of Keating 
(MS. Lib. K. I. A.) thus describes the performance of a similar 
operation on Cuchullin by the hero Curoi, from whom he had 
carried off the beautiful Blanaid : "Ohury forthwith pursued him 
into Mounster, and overtaking tbem both at Sallcboyde, the two 
matchless (but of themselves) champions edged of either syde by 
the stinge of love towards Blanait, and impatient, each, of the 
competition of a corrival about her, fell to a single combat in her 
presence, which soe succeeded (as the victory in duells tryed out 
to a pointe usually falloth out of one side) that Chury, favoured by 
fortune, and not inferior for valour to any that till that time ever 
upon equall tearmes mett him, gaining the upperhnnd of Cuchul- 
lnynn, he bound him upp hand andfoote with sucli zperligation 
thnt, trymming of his tresses with his launce (as a marke of his 
further disgrace and discomfiture), he took Blannait from thence 
quietly into West Mounster. 1 ' Elsewhere he uses the forcible ex- 
pression in reference to the same proceeding — "leaving him so 
juaamented, he went," &c. Of all the translations of Keating, 
this has most of the characteristic simplicity and quaintness of the 
Irish Herodotus. 

a A very ancient place of assembly among the Pagan Irish, and 
scene of the worship of their reputed principal idol, called Crom 
Cruach. From the story of Crom's overthrow by Saint Patrick, 
found in what is called the tripartite life of the saint, it would ap- 
pear that the stones which represented Crom and his twelve in- 
ferior demons were still in situ at the time of the composition of 
that work, which is said to be of the Sixth Century. "When 
Patrick saw the idol from the water, which is called Guthard, and 
when he approached near the idol, he raised his arm to lay the 
«taff of Jesus on him, and it did not reach him, he (i. e., Crom) 
bent back from the attempt upon his right side; for it was to the 
south bis face was : and the mark of the staff lives (exists) on his 
left side still, although the staff did not leave Patrick's hand ; and 
the earth swallowed the other twelve idols to tbeir heads; and 
ttoev are in that condition in commemoration of the miracle:" « 



Lee, the gentle-faced physician frim his herb- 
plot came, and said — 

" Healing is with God's permission : health for 
life's enjoyment made : 

And though I mine aid refuse not, yet, to speak 
my purpose plain, 

I the healing art abuse not, making life enure to 



" But assure me, with the sanction of the might- 
iest oath ye know, 

That in case, in this contention, Conall overcome 
his foe, 

Straight departing from the tonrnay by what 
path the chief shall choose, 

He is free to take his journey unmolested to the 



" Swear me further, while at healing in my charge; 

the hero lies, 
None shall, through my fences stealing, work bins 

mischief or surprise ; 
So, if God the undertaking but approve, in six 

months' span 
Once again my art shall make him meet to stand 

before a man '" 

Crom their God they then attested, Sun and 

Wind for guarantees, 
Conall Carnach unmolested, by what exit he 

might please, 
If the victor, should have freedom to depart 

Connacia's bounds ; 
Meantime, no man should intrude him, entering 

on the hospice grounds. 

Then his burden huge receiving in the hospice- 
portal, Lee, 

Stiffen'd limb by limb relieving with the iron- 
fetter key, 

As a crumpled scroll unroll'd him, groaning deep, 
till laid at length, 

Wondering gazers might behold him, what a, 
tower he was of strength. 



pregnant piece of evidence to show that even at this early ti 
the stone cromleac, or monumental stone circle, had been disu 
as a mode of sepulture : for it is plainly to a monument of t 
kind the writer of the tripartite life alludes in this passage. 
O'Donovan hns identified the plain of Moy Slaught with the i 
trict around the little modern village of Ballymacgouran, In 
parish of Temulenort. ami cou-ntv of Oavftn 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



Spake the sons to one another, day by day, of 

Bealcu — 
u Get thee up and spy, my brother, what the 

leech and northman do." 
" Lee, at mixing of a potion : Conall, yet in no 

wise dead, 
As on reef of rock the ocean, tosses wildly" on 

his bed." 

"Spy again with cautious peeping: what of Lee 

and Conall now ?" 
"Conall lies profoundly sleeping: Lee beside, 

with placid brow." 
" And to-day ?" " To-day he's risen ; pallid as 

his swathiug-sheet, 
He has left his chamber's prison, and is walking 

on his feet." 

" And to-day ?" " A ghastly figure, on his jave- 
lin propp'd he goes." 

"And to-day ?" "A languid vigor through his 
larger gesture shows." 

" And to-day ?" " The blood renewing mantles 
all his clear cheek through." 

" Would thy vow had room for rueing, rashly- 
valiant Bealcu !" . 

So with herb and healing balsam, ere the second 
month was past, 

Life's additions smooth and wholesome circling ■ 
through his members vast, 

As you've seen a sere oak burgeon under sum- 
mer showers and dew, 

Conall, under his chirurgeon, fill'd and flourish'd, \ 
spread and grew. 

* I can bear the sight no longer : I have watch'd 
him moon by moon : 

Day by day the chief grows stronger : giant- 
strong he will be soon. 

Oh, ray sire, rash-valiant warrior ! but that oaths 
have built the wall, 

Soon these feet should leap the barrier : soon this 
hand thy fate forestall." 

"Brother, have the wish thou'st utter'd : we have 

sworn, so let it be ; 
But although our feet be fetter'd, all the air is 

left us free. 
Dj:'ng Keth with vengeful presage did bequeath 

thee sling and ball, 
And the sling may send its message where thy 

vagrant glances fall. 



" Forbaid was a master-slinger : Maev, when in 

her bath she sank, 
Felt the presence of his finger from the further 

Shannon bank; 
For he threw by line and measure, practising a 

constant cast 
Daily in secluded leisure, till he reach'd the 

mark at last. 1 

" Keth achieved a warrior's honor, though 'twai 

'mid a woman's band, 
When he smote the amorous Conor bowing from 

his distant stand. 1 
Fit occasion will not fail ye : in the leech's lawn 

below, 
Conall at the fountain daily drinks within an easy 

throw." 

" Wherefore cast ye at the apple, sons of mine, 

with measured aim ?" 
"He who in the close would grapple, first the 

distant foe should maim. 



> " Oillioll, the last husband that Meauffe hart, being killed by 
Conall Carnath, she retyrert herself to Inish Clothran, an island 
lying within Loch Ryve, and afterward used dayly to bath hersel! 
in a well standing neere the entry of the same lake, and that timeli 
every morning; and though shee thought her like washing was 
eecrettly carried (on), yet, it comeing to the hearing of fforbuidhe 
vie Concbuvair, he privatly came to the well, and from ye brym 
thereof taking by a lynnen thrid, which for that purpose lie car* 
ryed with him, the right measure and length from thence to the 
other side of that lake adioneing to Ulster, and carrying that mea- 
sure with him into Ulster, and by tha same setting forth justly the 
like distance of ground, and at either end of that lyne filing two 
wooden stakes, with an apple at the top of one of them, he daily 
afterward made it his constant exercise with his hand-bowe to 
shoot at ye apple, till bi continuance he learned his lesson so per- 
fect, that he never missed his aymed marke ; and shortly afterward, 
sonee generall meeting being appointed betweene them of Ulster 
and those of Connaught, on the side of the river Shannon at Innisb. 
Clothrain, to be near Meauflt to receive her resolutions to the 
propositions moved of the other part unto them, fforbuid coming 
thither with the Ulidians, his countrymen, and watching his op- 
portunity, of a certain morning, spyed over ye lake Meauffe bath- 
ing of herself, as she formerly accustomed to doo in the same 
well, and thereupon he, to be spedd of his long-expected gaine, 
fitting his hand-howo with a ^toae, he therewith so assuredly 
pitched at his mark, that he bitt her right in the forehead, and by 
that devised sleigbt instantly killed her, when she little supposed 
or feared to take leave with the world, having (as formerly Is de- 
clared) had the power and command of all Connaght 83 years in 
her owne handes." — Keating, CPKearney's Version, Lib. JR. I. A. 

Inis Clothrain, the scene of this shocking treachery, is now 
known as Quaker's Island. Tradition preserves the place of 
Maev's assassination, but the well has disappeared.— See (FDono- 
tJOft's MS. Collections for the Ordnance Survey of Ireland, Lib. 
B. I. A., vol. "Roscommon." 

1 The late Professor O'Curry has fixed with laudable accuracy 
the locality of this act of savage warfare at Ardnurchar. i. e., "t)se 
height of the cast." in the county of Westmeath. The whole 
story of the sling-ball, of its nature and materials, of the chance 
by which it came into Keth's possession, and of the use he madn 
of it, forms a remarkable chapter in the history of harb.ir'an man- 
ners.— Vide O'Curry, Lectures on the MS. Material* of Anaieni 
Irish History, p. 593 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



And since Keth, his death-balls casting, rides no 

more the ridge of war, 
We against our summer hosting, train us for his 

vacant car." 

"Wherefore to the rock repairing, gaze ye forth, 

my children, tell." 
41 'Tis a stag we watch for snaring, that frequents 

the leech's well." 
■"I will see this stag — though, truly, small may be 

my eyes' delight." 
And he climb'd the rock where fully lay the lawn 

exposed to sight. 

Conall to the green well-margin came at dawn 

and knelt to drink, 
Thinking how a noble virgin by a like green 

fountain's brink 
Heard his own pure vows one morning, far away 

and long ago : 
All his heart to home was turning ; and his tears 

began to flow. 

Clean forgetful of his prison, steep Dunseverick's 

windy tower 
Seem'd to rise in present vision, and his own dear 

lady's bower. 
Round the sheltering knees they gather, little 

ones of tender years, — 
Tell us, mother, of our father ; and she answers 

but with tears. 

Twice the big drops plash'd the fountain. Then 
he rose, and, turning round, 

As across a breast of mountain sweeps a whirl- 
wind, o'er the ground 

Raced in athlete-feats amazing, swung the war- 
mace, hurl'd the spear; 

Bealcu, in wonder gazing, felt the pangs of deadly 
fear. 

Had it been a fabled griffin, suppled in a fasting 

den, 
Flash'd its wheeling coils to heaven o'er a wreck 

of beasts and men, 
Hardly had the dreadful prospect bred his soul 

more dire alarms ; 
Such the fire of Conall's aspect, such the stridor 

of his arms! 

44 This is fear," he said, "that never shook these 

limbs of mine till now. 
Now I see the mad endeavor ; now I mourn the 

boastful vow 



Yet 'twas righteous wrath impell'd me; and a 

sense of manly shame 
From his naked throat withheld me when 'twas 

offer'd to my aim. 

" Now I see his strength excelling : whence he 
buys it : what he pays : 

'Tis a God who has his dwelling in the fount, to 
whom he prays. 

Thither came he weeping, drooping, till the Well- 
God heard his prayer : 

Now behold him, soaring, swooping, as an eagle 
through the air. 

"0 thou God, by whatsoever sounds of awe thy 

name we know, 
Grant thy servant equal favor with the stranger 

and the foe ! 
Equal grace, 'tis all I covet ; and if sacrificial 

blood 
Win thy favor, thou shalt have it on thy very 

well-brink, God ! 

" What and though I've given pledges not to 

cross the leech's court ? 
Not to pass his sheltering hedges, meant I to hiB 

patient's hurt. 
Thy dishonor meant I never : never meant I to 



Right divine of prayer wherever Power divine 
invites to prayer. 

"Sun thatwarm'st me, Wind that fann'st me, ye 
that guarantee the oath, 

Make no sign of wrath against me : tenderly ye 
touch me both. 

Yea, then, through his fences stealing ere to- 
morrow's sun shall rise, 

Well-God ! on thy margin kneeling, I will offer 



" Brother, rise, the skies grow ruddy : if we yet 

would save our sire, 
Rests a deed courageous, bloody, wondering agea 

shall admire : 
Hie thee to the spy-rock's summit : ready there 

tiiou'lt find the sling ; 
Ready there the leaden plummet ; and at dawn 

he seeks the spring." 

Ruddy dawn had changed to amber: radiant as 

the yellow day, 
Conall, issuing from his chamber, to the fountain 

took his way : 



618 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



There, athwart the welling water, like a fallen 

pillar, spread, 
Smitten by the bolt of slaughter, lay Connacia's 

champion, dead. 

Call the hosts! convene the judges! cite the 

dead man's children both ! — 
Said the judges, " He gave pledges — Sun and 

Wind — and broke the oath, 
And they slew him : so we've written : let his 

sons attend our words." 
"Both, by sudden frenzy smitten, fell at sunrise 

on their swords." 

Then the judges, " Ye who punish man's pre- 
varicating vow, 

Needs not further to admonish : contrite to your 
will we bow, 

All our points of promise keeping : safely let the 
chief go forth." 

Conall to his ohariot leaping, turn'd his coursers 
to the north : 

In the Sun that swept the valleys, in the Wind's 

encircling flight, 
Recognizing holy allies, guardians of the Truth 

and Right ; 
While, before his face, resplendent with a firm 

faith's candid ''av. 
Dazzled troops of foes attendant, bow'd before 

him on his way. 

But the calm physician, viewing where the white 

neck join'd the ear, 
Said, " It is a slinger's doing : Sun nor Wind 

was actor here. 
Yet, till God vouchsafe more certain knowledge 

of his sovereign will, 
Better deem the mystic curtain hides their 

wonted demous still. 

" Better so, perchance, than living in a clearer 

light, like me, 
But believing where perceiving, bound in what I 

hear and see ; 
Force and change in constant sequence, changing 

atoms, changeless laws; 
Only in submissive patience waiting access to the 

Cause. 

" And, they say, Centurion Altus, when he to 

Emania came, 
And to Rome's subjection call'd us, urging 

Caesar's tribute claim, 



Told that half the world barbarian thrills already 

with the faith 
Taught them by the godlike Syrian Caesar lately 

put to death. 

"And the Sun, through starry stages measuring 

from the Ram and Bull, 
Tells us of renewing Ages, and that Nature's 

time is full : 
So, perchance, these silly breezes even now may 

swell the sail, 
Brings the leavening word of Jesns westward 

also to the Gael." 



THE BURIAL OF KING CORMAC. 

Cormac, son of Art, son of Con Cead-Catba,* enjoyed the sover- 
eignty of Ireland through the prolonged period of forty years, 
commencing from a. d. 213. During the latter part of his reign, 
he resided at Sletty, on the Boyne, being, it is said, disqualliled 
for the occupation of Tare by the personal blemish he had sus- 
tained in the loss of an eye, by the hand of Angus " Dread-Spear," 
chief of the Desi, a tribe whose original seats were in the barony 
of Deece, in the county of Meatta. It was in the time of Cormao 
and his son Carhre, if we are to credit the Irish annuls, lhat Fin, 
son of Comhal, and the Fenian heroes, celebrated by Ossian, flour- 
ished. Cormac has obtained the reputation cf wisdom and learn- 
ing, and appears justly entitled to the honur of having provoked 
the enmity of the Pagan priesthood, by declaring his faith in ft 
God not made by hands of men. 

"Crom Cruach and his sub-gods twelve," 
Said Cormac, "are but carven treene ; 

The axe that made them, haft or helve, 
Had worthier of our worship been. 

"But he who made the tree to grow, 
And hid in earth the iron-stone, 

And made the man with mind to know 
The axe's use, is God alone." 

Anon to priests of Crom was brought— 
Where, girded in their service dread, 

They miuister'd on red Moy Slaught — 
Word of the words King Coimac said. 

They loosed their curse against the king; 

They cursed him in his flesh and bones; 
And daily in their mystic ring 

They turn'd the maledietive stones/ 



' /. «., Hundred-Battle. 

3 A pagan practice, in use among the Lusltanian as well as the- 
Insular Celts, and of which Dr. O'Donovnn records m instance, 
among the latter, as late as the year 1S36. in the island of Inish- 
murrny. off the coast of Sligo. Among the places anil olnVws of. 
reverence included within tin- pre-Christian stone Cashel, or cyclo- 






POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



' Till, where at meat the monarch sate, 

Amid the revel and the wine, 
He choked upon the food he ate, 
At Sletty, southward of the Boyne. 

High vaunted then the priestly throng, 
And far and wide they noised abroad 

With trump and loud liturgic song 
The praise of their avenging God. 

But ere the voice was wholly spent 

That priest and prince should still obey, 

To awed attendants o'er him bent 

Great Corinac gather'd breath to say, — 

" Spread not the beds of Brugh for me 1 
When restless death-bed's use is done : 

But bury me at Rossnaree 
And face me to the rising sun. 

"For all the kings who lie in Brugh 
Put trust in gods of wood and stone ; 

And 'twas at Ross that first I knew 
One, Unseen, who is God alone. 

"His glory lightens from the east; 

His message soon shall reach our shore ; 
And idol-god, and cursing priest 

Shall plague us from Moy Slaught no more/ 

Dead Cormac on his bier they laid : — 
" He reign'd a king for forty years, 

And shame it were," his captains said, 
" He lay not with his royal peers. 



pean citadel of the island, he mentions the clocha breca, i. e., the 
speckled stones. "They are round stones of varions sizes, and 
arranged in such order as that they cannot be easily reckoned; 
and, if you believe the natives, they cannot be reckoned at all. 
These stones are turned, and, if I understand them rightly, their 
order changed by the inhabitants on certain occasions, when they 
viBit this shrine to wish good or evil to their neighbors." — MS. 
Collections for Ordnance Survey, Lib. R. I. A. 

1 The principal cemetery of the pagan Irish kings was at Brugh, 
which seems to have been situated on the northern bank of the 
Boyne. A series of tumuli and sepulchral cairns extends from 
the neighborhood of Slane towards Drogheda, beginning, according 
to the ancient tract preserved in the book of Ballymote (Petrie, E. 
T. Trans., R. I. A., vol. xx., p. 102), with the imdae in Dagda, or 
" Bed of tiie Dagda," a king of tho Tuath de Danaan, supposed, 
with apparently good reason, to be the well-known tumulus now 
called New Grange. TLis and the neighboring cairn of Dowth 
appear to be the-nnly Megalithic sepulchres in the west of Europe 
distinctly referable to persons whose names are historically pre- 
served. The carvings wnich cover the stones of their chambers 
and galleries correspond very closely with those of the Gavrinis 
'.viinb near Locmariaker, in Brittany. The Breton Megalithic 
monuments appear to belong to a period long anterior to the Ro- 
man Conquest; and this resemblance between one of the latest 
or that group and these quasi pyramids on the Boyne, ascribed by 
Irish historic tradition to an early ante-ChriBtian epo-h, goes Bar 
to show that a foundation of fact underlies the earlj history of 
Ireland. 



" His grandsire, Hundred -Battle, sleeps 
Serene in Brugh : and, all around, 

Dead kings in stone sepulchral keeps 
Protect the sacred burial-ground. 

" What though a dying man should rave 
Of changes o'er the eastern sea ? 

In Brugh of Boyse shall be his grave, 
And not in noteless Rossnaree." 

Then northward forth they bore the bier, 
And down from Sletty side they drew, 

With horseman and with charioteer, 
To cross the fords of Boyne to Brugh. 

There came a breath of finer air 

That touch'd the Boyne with ruffling wingi, 
It stirr'd him in his sedgy lair 

And in his mossy moorland springs. 

And as the burial train came down 
- With dirge and savage dolorous shows, 
Across their pathway, broad and brown 
The deep, full-hearted river rose ; 

From bank to bank through all his fords, 
'Neath blackening squalls he swell'd and 
boil'd ; 

And thrice the wondering gentile lords 
Essay'd to cross, and thrice recoil'd. 

Then forth stepp'd gray-hair'd warriors four: 
They said, "Through angrier floods than, 
these, 

On link'd shields once our king we bore 
From Dread-Spear and the hosts of Deece. 

"And long as loyal will holds good, 
And limbs respond with helpful thews, 

Nor flood, nor fiend within the flood, 
Shall bar him of his burial dues.'' 

With slanted necks they stoop'd to lift ; 

They heaved him up to neck and chia ; 
And, pair and pair, with footsteps swift, 

Lock'd arm and shoulder, bore him in. 

'Twas brave to see them leave the shore ; 

To mark the deep'ning surges rise, 
And fall subdued in foam before 

The tension of their striding thighs. 

'Twas brave, when now a spear-cast out» 
Breast-high the battling surges ran ; 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



Ft. weight was great, and limbs were stout, 
And loyal mau put trust in man. 

But ere they reach'd the middle deep, 
Nor steadying weight of clay they bore, 

Nor strain of sinewy iimbs could keep 
Their feet beneath the swerving four. 

And now they slide and now they swim, 
And now, amid the blackening squall, 

Gray locks afloat, with clutchings grim, 
They plunge around the floating pall. 

While, as a youth with practised spear 

Through justling crowds bears off the ring, 

Boyne from their shoulders caught the bier 
And proudly bore away the king. 

At morning, on the grassy marge 
Of Rossnaree, the corpse was found, 

And shepherds at their early charge 
Entomb'd it in the peaceful ground. 

A tranquil spot : a hopeful sound 

Comes from the ever-youthful stream, 

And still on daisied mead and mound 
The dawn delays with tenderer beam. 

Round Cormac Spring renews her buds: 

In march perpetual by his side, 
Down come the earth-fresh April floods, 

And up the sea-fresh salmon glide; 

And life and time rejoicing. run 

From age to age their wonted way; 
But still he waits the risen Sun, 
For still 'tis only dawning Day. 



AIDEEN'S GRAVE. 

Aldeen, daughter of Aligns of Ben-Edar (now the Hill of Howth), 
died of grief for the loss of her husband, Oscar, son of Ossian, 
who was slain at the battle of Gavra (Gowra, near Tara, in Meath), 
a. u. 2f4. Oscar was entombed in the rath or earthen fortress that 
occupied part of the field of battle, the rest of the slain being cast 
in a pit outside. Akieen is said to have been buried on Howth, 
near the mansion of her father, and poetical tradition represents 
the Fenian heroes as present at her obsequies. The Cromlech in 
Howth Park has been supposed to be her sepulchre. It stands 
under the summits from which the poet Atharne is said to have 
launched his invectives against the people of Leinster, until, by 
the blichting effect of his satires, they were compelled to make 
bim atonement for the death of his son. 

Tiikt heaved the stone; they heap'd the cairn: 
Siiid Ossian, " In a queenly grave 



We leave her, 'mong her fields of fern, 
Between the cliff and wave. 

" The cliff behind stands clear and bare, 
And bare, above, the heathery steep 

Scales the clear heaven's expanse, to whera 
The Danaan Druids sieep.' 

"And all the sands that, left and right, 
The grassy isthmus-ridge confine, 

In yellow bars lie bare and bright 
Among the sparkling brine. 

"A clear pure air pervades the scene, 

In loneliness and awe secure ; 
Meet spot to sepulchre a Queen 

Who in her life was pure. 

" Here, far from camp and chase removed, 
Apart in Nature's quiet room, 

The music that alive she loved 
Shall cheer her in the tomb. 

" The humming of the noontide bees, 
The lark's loud carol .-ill day long, 

And, borne on evening's salted breeze, 
The clanking sea-bird's song, 



"Shall round her airy chamber float, 
And with the whispering winds and 

Attune to Nature's tenderest note 
The tenor of her dreams. 



" And oft, at tranquil eve's decline 

When full tides lip the Old Green Plain,' 

The lowing of Moynalty's kine 
Shall round her breathe again, 

"In sweet remembrance of the days 
When, duteous, in the lowly vale, 



Irish historic tradition abounds with allusions to the Tuatha- 
the god-tribes of the Danaans, an early race of 
conquerors from the north of Europe, versed in musio and poetry, 
as well as In the other then reputed arts of civilized life. They 
are said to have reached the shores of the Baltic from Greece by 
the same route supposed by the pseudo Orpheus to have been 
taken by the Argonauts, and by which Homer also seems to have 
conducted Ulysses. A Greek taste, however derived, is certainly 
discoverable in the arms and monuments ascribed to this people. 
Popular mythology regards the race of fairies and demons as of 
Danaan origin. 

3 The plain of Moynalty. Magh-riealta, i. e., the plain of tlu. 
(bird) flocks, is said to have been open and cultivable from tlio 
beginning; unlike the other plains, which had to he freed from 
their primreval forests by the early colonists. Hence its appella- 
tion of the Old Plain. It extends over the northeastern part of 
the county of Dublin, and eastern Dart of Meath. 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



Unconscious of my Oscar's gaze, 
She fill'd the fragrant pail, 

" And, duteous, from the running brook 
Drew water for the bath ; nor deem'd 

A king did on her labor look, 
And she a fairy seera'd. 1 



1 A liberty has here been taken with the traditionary rights of 
King Cormac and his wife Eithne, with whose memories the pic- 
turesque idyll preserved by Keating ought properly to be asso- 
ciated. The garrulous simplicity of the original is well reflected 
in the quaint version of O'Kearny. 

"Eithne OUaffdha, the daughter of Duynluing Vic Enna Niad 
was the mother of Cairebry Leoffiochair, she being the adopted 
daughter of Buickiodd, a remarkable and much spoken off ffearmor 
(for his great wealth, ability, and bountifull disposition of enter- 
taining all sortes of people comeing to his house), who lyved in 
those dayes in Leinster, and -was Boe addicted to oppen hospitality 
that he constantly kept a cauldron in his house still on the Are 
boyling of meate, both night and day, Indifferently for all them 
that came to his house, which doubtlesse by an invitation of that 
kind procured to bee many. 

"This Buickiodd, together with his other wealth and substance, 
had seven dayryes of one hundred and forty cowes a peece, wl.h 
an answerable proportion of horsses, mares, gearranB, and other 
cattle thereunto; and at length this hospitable and free man was 
soe played upon in abuseing his plainenesse and liberality by the 
chieftaines and nobles of Leinster. that they frequentingwith their 
adherents his house, some would take away with them a drove of 
his kyne, others a great number of his stood mares and gearrans, 
and others a great many of his horses, that, in requital of his free 
heart, they soe fleeced bare the good man, that they left him only 
Heaven cowes and a bull of all the goods that he ever possessed ; 
and finding himselfe soe ympoverished, he, by a night stealth, re- 
moved from Dun Boickyodd, where in his prosperity he resided, 
to a certain wood lying neere Keananas in Meath, accompanyed 
only with his wife and his said adopted daughter Eithne, and 
carryed thither his feew heades of cattle. Cormock the king lyv- 
iug comonly at Keananad in those days, this honest Baickiod for 
to shelter himself under his wynges and protection, erected a poor 
cabyn or booly cott for himself his wife and daughter in that wood, 
where lyvinge a good while in a contented course of life, Eithne 
did as humbly and diligently serve him and his wife as if she had 
been their slave or vassall, their service and attendance could not 
be with better care performed, and contynuing in that 6tate, on a 
day thai Cormock (the king) did ryde abroad alone by himselfe to 
take ye aire, and the protpect of the adiacent lamles and valleyes 
tfl his fcaid mannor (as he was accustomed for his pleasure often to 
do), by chance he saw that beautiful! and lovely damsell Eithne 
milking of her said ffosterfather's few cowes, which she performed 
after this manner. She had two vessells, and with one of them 
she went over the seven cowes, and filling the same with the first 
parte of their milck (as the choysest parte thereof), she again went 
over them with the second vessell, and milked therein their second 
milck, till by that allternate course she drew from them all the 
milck that tb-^y could yield, the K. all the whyle being ravished 
with his gDod liking of her care and excellent beauty and per- 
fections, beholding of her with admiration and astonishment, and 
she not neglecting her service for his presence, bringing the milk 
into the cabyn where Baickiodd and his wife layd, returns forth 
from thence again with two other cleane vessells and a boule in 
her hand, and repayring to the water next adjoining to the house, 
she filled one of those vessells with ye water running next to the 
fcancke of ye ryver, and the other with the water running in the 
jiiddest of that streame or watercourse, and brought them both 
soe filled into the cabyn, and coming forth the third tyme with a 
hook in iier hand, she began therewith to cutt ruishes, parting 
(them) still as they fell in her way into severall bundells, the long 
and short rushes asunder, and Cormock all the while beholding 
Ler (as one taken with the comaunding power and captivity of 
love), at length asked of her for whom shee made that selection 
both of milck, water, and rushes; whereunto she answered that 
It was done for one that shee was bound to tender with better re- 



"But when the wintry frosts begin, 
And in their long-drawn, lofty flight, 

The wild geese with their airy din 
Distend the ear of night, 

" And when the fierce De Danaan ghosts 
At midnight from their peak come down,. 

When all around the enchanted coasts 
Despairing strangers drown ; 

"When, mingling with the wreckful wail, 
From low Clootarf's wave-trampled floor 

Comes booming up the burthen'd gale 
The angry Sand-Bull's roar, 2 

"Or, angrier than the sea, the shout 
Of Erin's hosts in wrath combined, 

When Terror heads Oppression's rout, 
And Freedom cheers behind: — 

"Then o'er our lady's placid dream, 

Where safe from storms she sleeps, may 
steal 

Such joy as will not misbeseero 
A Queen of men to feel : 

" Such thrill of free defiant pride, 

As rapt her in her battle car 
At Gavra, when by Oscar's side 

She rode the ridge of war, 



spects if it lay in her power to perform, and that her performance* 
that way were but fryday requitalls to the effectual obligation of 
lovo and beholdingnesse wherein she was inviolably bound unto 
him, and thereupon the king, being both desirous to continue his 
further talking with her (such ia the wonted effect produced by 
love and liking, when they take any flrme footing), and withall 
willing to flnde out whom she soe kindly favoured, asked her what 
his name was that she soe respected, who answeared that he was 
Baickiodd Brugh, and the king further questioning her whether 
he was the same man of that name that in Leinster was famous- 
for his wealth and oppen hospitality, and she telling him that he 
was the very same man, then, replyed the king, you are Eithne, 
his adopted daughter. I am, sir, said shee. In a good hour, 
sayed the king, for you shall be my maryed wife. Nay, sayed 
Eithne, my disposall lyeth not in mine owne hand, but in my 
ff os ter father's power and comaund, unto whom they both forth- 
with repayring. the king expressed his said intention to Baickiod 
and obtaining his good allowance, marryed Eithne, and gratified 
her ffosterfather with a territory of !and lying neare Thanagh 
(Tara), called Tuaith Othraim, which he held during his life, and 
that marryage with all requisite Bolemnityes being celebrated, 
Eithne afterward bore unto Cormocke a eon called Cairebry 
Lioffachair, who grow to be worthily famous and UlustrioHS in his 
tyme."— MS. Lib. B. I. A. 

The townland of Dunboyke, near Blessington, in the county of 
Wlcklow, still retains the name of the hospitable Franklin. 

2 The sandbai.ks on either side of the estuary of the Liffey have 
obtained the nan.es of fee North and South Bulls, from the hol- 
low bellowing sound there made by the breakers, in easterly and 
southerly winds. The North Bull gives name to the aborning 
district of CloHtarf-Cluain, TarV* * 
brated for the overthrow of the I 
Irish under King Brian Boru, 



«22 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



"Exulting, down the shouting troops, 

And through the thick confronting kings, 

With hands on all their javelin loops 
And shafts on all their strings ; 

"E'er closed the inseparable crowds, 
No more to part for me, and show, 

As bursts the sun through scattering clouds, 
My Oscar issuing so. 

"No more, dispelling battle's gloom 
Shall son for me from fight return ; 

The great green rath's ten-acred tomb 
Lies heavy on his urn. 1 

" A cup of bodkin-pencill'd clay 

Holds Oscar ; mighty heart and limb 

One handful now of ashes gray : 
And she has died for him. 

"And here, hard by her natal bower 
On lone Ben Edar's side, we strive 

With lifted rock and sign of power 
To keep her name alive. 

" That while from circling year to year, 
Her Ogham-lettei-'d stoue is seen, 

The Gael shall say, ' Our Fenians here 
Entomb'd their loved Aideen.' 

" The Ogham from her pillar stone 
In tract of time will wear away ; 

Her name at last be only knovvu 
Tn Ossian's echo'd lay. 

"The long-forgotten lay I sing 
May only ages hence revive 

i At this flay there Is a difficulty in distinguishing the remain! 
•f the Rath ..f Guvra. It appears to have stood on the slope be 
tween the hill of Tara and the river Boyne on the west Severs 
heroes of the name of Oscar perished in the battle of Gavra The 
Ossianio poem which celebrates the battle, whatever be its age, 
assigns the rath or earthen fortress as the grave of Oscar, the son 
of the bard. 

We buried Oscar of the red arms 

On the north side of the great Gavra: 

Together with Oseur son of Garraidh of the achievements, 

And Oscar son of tlie king of Lochlann. 



(As eagle with a wounded wing 
To soar again might strive), 



"Imperfect, in an alien speech, 

When, wandering here, some child of chanc« 
Through pangs of keen delight shall reach 

The gift of utterance, — 

" To speak the air, the sky to speak, 

The freshness of the hill to tell, 
Who, roaming bare Ben Edar's peak 

And Aideen's briery dell, 

" And gazing on the Cromlech vast, 
And on the mountain and the sea, 

Shall catch communion with the past 
And mix himself with me. 

"Child of the Future's doubtful night, 
Whate'er your speech, whoe'er your sires. 

Sing while you may with frank delight 
The song your hour inspires. 

" Sing while you mav, nor grieve to know 
The song you sing shall also die ; 

Atharna's lay has perish'd so, 
Though once it thrill'd this sky 

"Above us, from his rocky chair, 

There, where Ben Edar's landward crest 

O'er eastern Bregia bends, to where 
Dun Almon crowns the west: 

"And all that felt the fretted air 

Throughout the song-distemper'd clime, 

Did droop, till suppliant Leinster's prayer 
Appeased the vengeful rhyme. 11 

* The story of Athflrna is found in the traditionary collections, 
under the title Ath-diath, i. e., Hurdle-ford. It was' by him, and 
for the use of his flocks, that the ford or weir oi wicker-work mj 
constructed across the Liffey. which anciently gave name to Dub- 
lin. The Leinster people, who inhabited the right bank of the 
Liffey, resented the invasion of their pastures, and great strifes 
ensued between tlieir king, Mesgedra, and Conor Mac Ne*sa, king 
of Ulster, who espoused the cause of Atharna. Mesgedra was 
ultimately slain by Conall Carnach, who was sent into Leinster in 
aid of the bardic trespasser; but Atharna's own poetical denun- 
ciations were evaa more terrible to the Loinstermen than the 
Bwords of the Red Bnincb chnmpions. " He continued," says taa 
tract in the Book of Ballymote, "for a full year to satirize the 
Leinstermen and bring fatalities upon them ; so that neither corn, 
grass, nor foliage grew for them that year." Tho miraculous pre- 
tensions of the class were continued down to the Fiftlcnth Cen- 
tury, when Sir John Stanley, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, was 
popularly believed to have been despatched within a space of no 
more than five weeks by an Afir composed against him by Niall 
"Rimer" O'HigL'in, lilfld of a bardic family in Weslmeath, whose 
cattle hail been driven by the English of Dublin. See Annul* of 
the Fain- Mutters, ad an. 1414, and Hardiman'sStot of Kilk.,bb. u. 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



623 



" Ah me, or e'er the hour arrive 
Shall bid my long-forgotten tones, 

Unknown One, on your lips revive, 
Here by these moss-grown stones, 

" What change shall o'er the scene havecross'd ; 

What conquering lords anew have come ; 
What lore-arm'd, mightier Druid host 

From Gaul or distant Rome ! 

" What arts of death, what ways of life, 
What creeds unknown to bard or seer, 

Shall round your careless steps be rife, 
Who pause and ponder here ; 

"And, haply, where yon curlew calls 

Athwart the marsh, 'mid groves and bowers 

See rise some mighty chieftain's halls 
With unimagined towers : 

"And baying hounds, and coursers bright, 
And burnish'd cars of dazzling sheen, 

With courtly train of dame and knight, 
Where now the fern is green. 

" Or, by yon prostrate altar-stone 

May kneel, perchance, and, free from blame, 
Hear k»ly men with rites unknown 

New names of God proclaim. 

41 Let change as may the Name of Awe, 

Let rite surcease and altar fall, 
The same One God remains, a law 

Forever and for all. 

' Let change as may the face of earth, 

Let alter all the social frame, 

For mortal men the ways of birth 

And death are still the same. 

" And still, as life and time wear on, 
The children of the waning days 

(Though strength be from their shoulders gone 
To lift the loads we raise), 

" Shall weep to do the burial rites 
Of lost ones loved ; and fondly found, 



The plain of Bregia comprised the flat district of Meath. Dub- 
lin, Kildare, and Wicklow. In its modern form, Bray, the name 
-is r\OT- confined to the well-known watering-place and its fine pro- 
montory of Bray Head. Dun Almon was, it is said, the residence 
of Fion, son of Comlial, the Pin Mao Cool of Irish, and Fingal of 
Scottish tradition. Its name is still preserved In the hill of Allen, 
and bardic tradition affects to give the name of the builder by 
«taom it was constructed.— O'Curry, App. 578. 



In shadow of the gathering nights, 
The monumental mound. 

" Farewell ! the strength of men is worn : 
The night approaches dark and chill : 

Sleep, till perchance an endless morn 
Descend the glittering hill." 

Of Oscar and Aideen bereft, 

So Ossian sang. The Fenians sped 

Three mighty shouts to heaven; and left 
Ben Edar to the dead. 



THE WELSHMEN OF TIRAWLET. 

Several Welsh families, associates in tho invasion of Strongbow, 
settled in the west of Ireland. Of these, the principal whose 
names have been preserved by the Irish antiquarians, were the 
War'shes, Joyces. Heils (a quibus Mac Hale), Lawlessea, Tom- 
lyns, Lyrrotts, and Barretts, which last draw their pedigree from 
Walynes, son of Guyndally, the Ard Maor, or High Steward of 
the Lordship of l/amelot, and had their chief seats in the territory 
of the two Bacs, in the barony of Tirawley, and county of Mayo. 
Cloehan-nti-nCall, i.e., "the Blind Men's Stepping-stones," are 
still pointed out on the Duvowen river, about four miles north of 
Crossmolina, in the townland of Garranard; and Tuuber-no> 
Scorney, or "Scrag's Well," in the opposite townland of Cams, 
in the same barony. For a curious terrier or applotment of the 
Mac William's revenue, as acquired nnder the circumstances 
stated in the legend preserved by Mao Firbis. see Dr. O'Donovan'i 
highly-learned and interesting " Genealogies, &c, of Hy Fiach- 
rach," in the publications of the Irish ArehcBologicul Society— a 
great monument of antiquarian and topographical erudition. 

Scorna Bot, the Barretts' bailiff, lewd and lame, 
To lift the Lynotts' taxes when he came, 
Rudely drew a young maid to him ; 
Then the Lynotts rose and slew him, 
And in Tubber-na-Scorney threw him — 

Small your blame, 

Sons of Lynott ! 
Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley. 



Then the Barretts to the Lynotts 

choice, 
Saying, " Hear, ye murderous brood, men and 

boys, 
For this deed to-day ye lose 
Sight or manhood : say and choose 
Which ye keep and which refuse ; 
And rejoice 
That our mercy 
Leaves you living for a warning to Tirawley." 



624 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



Then the little boys of the Lynotts, weeping, 

said, 
''Only leave us our eyesight in our head." 
But the bearded Lynotts then 
Made answer back again — 
•Take our eyes, but leave us men, 

Alive or dead, 

Sons of Wattin !" 
Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley. 



sharp and 



So the Barretts, with sewing- 
smooth, 

Let the light out of the eyes of every youth, 
And of every bearded man 
Of the broken Lynott clan ; 
Then their darken'd faces wan 

Turning south 

To the river — 
Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley. 

O'er the slippery stepping-stones of Clocban-na- 

n'all 
They drove them, laughing loud at every fall, 
As their wandering footsteps dark 
Fail'd to reach the slippery mark, 
And the swift stream swallow'd, stark, 

One and all, 

As they stumbled — 
From the vengeance of the Welsh men of Tirawley. 

Of all the blinded LyDotts one alone 
Walk'd erect from stepping-stone to stone : 
So back again they brought you, 
And a second time they wrought you 
With their needles ; but never got you 

Once to groan, 

Emon Lynott, 
For the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley. 

But with prompt-projected footsteps sure as ever, 
Emon Lynott again cross'd the river, 
Though Duvowen was rising fast, 
And the shaking stones o'ercast 
By cold floods boiling past ; 

Yet you never, 

Emon Lynott, 
Falter'd once before your foemen of Tirawley ! 

But, turning on Ballintubber bank, you stood, 
And the Barretts thus bespoke o'er the flood — 
" Oh, ye foolish sons of Wattin, 
Small at. Ends are these you've gotten, 
For, whilo Scoma Boy lies rotten, 



Sing 



I am good 
For vengeance !" 
the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley. 

For 'tis neither in eye nor eyesight that a man 

Bears the fortunes of himself and his clan, 

But in the manly mind, 

These darken'd orbs behind, 

That your needles could never find, 
Though they rau 
Through my heart-strings !" 

Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley 

"But, little your women's needles do I reck : 
For the night from heaven never fell so black, 
But Tirawley, and abroad 
From the Moy to Cuan-an-fod, 1 
I could walk it, every sod, 

Path and track, 

Ford and togher, 
Seeking vengeance on you, Barretts of Tirawley. 

" The night when Dathy O'Dowda broke your 

camp, 
What Barrett among you was it held the lamp — 
Show'd the way to those two feet, 
When, through wintry wind and sleet, 
I guided your blind retreat, 

In the swamp 

Of Beal-an-asa ? 
ye vengeance-destined ingrates of Tirawley J" 

So, leaving loud-shriek-echoing Garranard 
The Lynott, like a red dog hunted hard, 
With his wife and children seven, 
'Mong the beasts and fowls of heaven, 
In the hollows of Glen Nephin, 

Light-debarr'd, 

Made his dwelling, 
Planning vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley. 

And ere the bright-orb'd year its course had run, 
On his brown round-knotted knee he nursed a son, 
A child of light, with eyes 
As clear as are the skies 
In summer, when sunrise 



1 That Is, from the river Moy to Blackaod Haven, in Irish, Cuan- 
an-foid-duibh. The names of the baronies in this part of Mayo 
»nd Sligo are tnken from l lie son and grandson of Dathi, the pro- 
genitor of ttao families of O'Dowda. Tir Eera, in 81veo. is so- 
called by a softened pronuneiitti.m fruin Fiaclira. sjn of,Dathi 
«nd Tir-Awley, in like manner, from Amhalgaid, son of FiJehr*. 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



Has begun ; 
So the Lynott 
Nursed Ms vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley. 

And, as ever the bright boy grew in strength 

and size, 
Made him perfect in each manly exercise, 
The salmon in the flood, 
The dun deer in the wood, 
The eagle in the cloud 

To surprise, 

On Ben Nephin, 
Far above the foggy fields of Tirawley. 

With the yellow-knotted spear-shaft, with the 
bow, 

With the steel, prompt to deal shot and blow, 

He taught him from year to year, 

And train'd him, without a peer, 

For a perfect cavalier, 

Hoping so — 

Far his forethought — 

For vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley. 

And, when mounted on his proud-bounding 

steed, 
Emon Oge sat a cavalier indeed ; 
Like the ear upon the wheat, 
"When winds in autumn beat 
On the bending stems, his seat ; 
And the speed 
Of his courser 
Was the wind from Barna-na-gee 1 o'er Tirawley ! 

Now when fifteen sunny summers thus were 
spent 

(He perfected in all accomplishment), 

The Lynott said : " My child, 

We .are over-long exiled 

From mankind in this wild — 
Time we went 
Through the mountain 

To the countries lying over-against Tirawley." 



So, out over mountain-moors, and mosses brown, 
And green stream-gathering vales, they jonr- 

ney'd down ; 
Till, shining like a star, 
Through the dusky gleams afar, 
The bailey of Castlebar 



And the town 
Of Mac William 
Rose bright jbo.o the wanderers of Tirawley. 

" Look southward, my boy, and tell me, as we go, 

What seest thou by the loch-head below." 

" Oh, a stone-house, strong and great, 

And a horse-host at the gate, 

And their captain in armor of plate — 

Grand the show ! 

Great the glancing ! 
High the heroes of this land below Tirawley ! 

" And a beautiful Woman-chief by his side, 
Yellow gold on all her gown-sleeves wide ; 
And in her hand a pearl 
Of a young, little, fair-hair'd girl." — 
Said the Lynott, " It is the Earl ! 

Let us ride 

To his presence !" 
And before him came the exiles of Tirawley 

" God save thee, Mac William,'-' the Lynott thru 

began ; 
"God save all here besides of this clan; 
For gossips dear to me 
Are all in company — 
For in these four bones ye see 

A kindly man 

Of the Britons — 
Emon Lynott of Garranard of Tirawley. 

" And hither, as kindly gossip-law allows, 

I come to claim a scion of thy house 

To foster ; for thy race 

Since William ConquerV days, 

Have ever been wont to place, 

With some spouse 

Of a Briton, 
A Mac William Oge, to foster in Tirawley. 

" And to show thee in what sort our youth ore 

taught, 
I have hither to thy home of valor brought 
This one son of my age, 
For a sample and a pledge 
For the equal tutelage, 

In right thought, 
Word, and action, 
Of whatever son ye give into Tirawley." 



•nqueror of Connanght. 



1 e, William Fiti Adelm de 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



' 



When Mac William beheld the brave boy ride 

and run, 
Saw the spear-shaft from his white shoulder 

spun — 
With a sigh, and with a smile, 
He said : " I would give the spoil 
Of a county, that Tibbot 1 Moyle, 
My own son, 
Were accomplished 
Like this branch of the kindly Britons of Tiraw- 

ley." 

When the Lady Mac William she heard him 

speak, 
And saw the ruddy roses on his cheek, 
She said : " I would give a purse 
Of red gold to the nurse 
That would rear my Tibbot no worse ; 

But I seek 

Hitherto vainly — 
Heaven grant that I now have found her in Ti- 
lawley !" 

So they said to the Lynott : " Here, take our bird ! 
And as pledge for the keeping of thy word, 
Let this soion here remain 
Till thou comest back again : 
Meanwhile the fitting train 

Of a lord 

Shall attend thee 
With the lordly heir of Connaught into Tiraw- 
ley." 

So back to strong-throng-gathering Garranard, 
Like a lord of the country with his guard, 
Came the Lynott, before them all. 
Once again over Clochan-na-n'all, 
Steady-striding, erect, and' tall, 

And his ward 

On his shoulders ; 
To the wonder of the Welshmen of Tirawley. 

Then a diligent foster-father you would deem 
The Lynott, teaching Tibbot, by mead and stream, 
To cast the spear, to ride, 
To stem the rushing tide, 
With what feats of body beside 

Might beseem 

A Mac William, 
Foster'd free among the Welshmen of Tirawley. 

• Tibbot, that is, Theobald. 



But the lesson of hell he taught him in heart 

and mind ; 
For to what desire soever he inclined, 
Of anger, lust, or pride, 
He had it gratified, 
Till he ranged the circle wide 

Of a blind 

Self-indulgence, 
Ere he came to youthful manhood in Tirawley. 

Then, even as when a hunter slips a hound, 
Lynott loosed him — God's leashes all unbound — 
In the pride of power and station, 
And the strength of youthful passion, 
On the daughters of thy nation, 

All around, 

Wattin Barrett ! 
Oh, the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley ! 

Bitter grief and burning anger, rage and shame, 
Fill'd the houses of the Barretts where'er he 

came ; 
Till the young men of the Bac 
Drew by night upon his track, 
And slew him at Cornassack — * 

Small your blame, 

Sons of Wattin ! 
Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley. 

Said the Lynott : " The day of my vengeance is 

drawing near, 
The day for which, through many a long dark 

year, 
I have toil'd through grief and sin — 
Call ye now the Brehons in, 
And let the plea begin 

Over the bier 
Of Mac William, 
For an eric upon the Barretts of Tirawley.' 



» "This is still vividly remembered in the country, and the apo» 
is pointed out where Teaboid Maol Burke was killed by the Bar- 
retts. The recollection of it has been kept alive in certain verses, 
which were composed on the occasion, of which the following 
quatrain is often repeated in the barony of Tirawley: 
Tangadar JBaireadaigh, &c 
"The Barretts of the country came; 
Tbey perpetrated a deed which was not JUBt; 
They shed blood which was nobler than wine. 
At the narrow brook of Cornasack." 

O'Donovan, Tr. and Oust. By. FiacK, 38S n. 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



Then the Brehons to Mac William Burke decreed 
An eric upon Clan Barrett for the deed; 
And the Lynott's share of the fine, 
As foster-father, was nine 
Ploughlands and nine score kine ; 

But no need 

Had the Lynott, 
Neither care, for land or cattle in Tirawley. 

But rising, while all sat silent on the spot, 

He said : " The law says — doth it not ? — 

If the foster-sire elect 

His portion to reject, 

He may then the right exact 

To applot 

The short eric." 
"'Tis the law," replied the Brehons of Tirawley. 

Said the Lynott : " I once before had a choice 

Proposed me, wherein law had little voice ; 

But now I choose, and say, 

As lawfully I may, 

[ applot the mulct to-day ; 

So rejoice 

In your ploughlands 
And your cattle which I renounce throughout 
Tirawley. 

" And thus I applot the mulct : I divide 

The land throughout Clau Barrett on every side 

Equally, that no place 

May be without the face 

Of a foe of Wattin's race — 

That the pride 

Of the Barretts 
May be humbled hence forever throughout Ti- 
rawley. 

" I adjudge a seat in every Barrett's hall 

To Mac William : in every stable I give a stall 

To Mac William : and, beside, 

Whenever a Burke shall ride 

Through Tirawley, I provide 

At his call 

Needful grooming, 
Without charge from any hostler of Tirawley. 



his eric beforehand, in the event, reasonably anticipated, of per- 
sonal injury befalling him. Singular, that while modern Under- 
ness of human life would abolish the punishment of death in cases 
of homicide, it ignores the barbarian wisdom which gave com- 
f evsation to the family of the victim. 



" Thus lawfully I avange me for the throes 
Ye lawlessly caused me and caused those 
Unhappy shamefaced ones, 
Who, their mothers expected once, 
Would have been the sires of sons — 

O'er whose woes 

Often weeping, 
I have groan'd in my exile from Tirawley. 

"I demand not of you your manhood; but I 

take — 
For the Burkes will take it — your Freedom ! for 

the sake 
Of which all manhood's given, 
And all good under heaven, 
And, without which, better even 
Ye should make 
Yourselves barren, 
Than see your children slaves throughout Tiraw 

ley! 

" Neither take I your eyesight from you ; as yon 

took 
Mine and ours : I would have you daily look 
On one another's eyes, 
When the strangers tyrannize 
By your hearths, and blushes arise, 
That ye brook, 
Without vengeance, 
The insults of troops of Tibbots throughout Ti 

rawley ! 



" The vengeance I design'd, now is done, 
And the days of me and mine nearly run — 
For, for this, I have broken faith, 
Teaching him who lies beneath 
This pall, to merit death ; 

And my son 

To his father 
Stands pledged for other teaching in Tirawley/ 

Said Mac William, " Father and son, hang thera 

high!" 
And the Lynott they hang'd speedily ; 
But across the salt sea water, 
To Scotland, with the daughter 
Of Mac William — well you got her I— 
Did you fly, 
Edmund Lindsay, 
The gentlest of all the Welshmen of Tirawlejl 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



"Tis thus the ancient Ollaves of Erin tell' 

How, through lewdness ami revenge,' it befell 

That the sons of William Conquer 

Came over the sons of Wattin, 

Throughout all the bounds and borders 

Of the land of Auley Mac Fiachra ;' 

Till the Saxon Oliver Cromwell, 

And his valiant, Bible-guided, 

Ej-ee heretics of Clan London 

Coming in, in their succession, 

Rooted out both Burke aud Barrett, 

knd in their empty places 

New stems of freedom planted, 

With many a goodly sapling 

Of manliness and virtue ; 

Which while their children cherish, 

Kindly Irish of the Irish, 

Neither Saxons nor Italians, 

May the mighty God of Freedom 

Speed them well, 

Never taking 
Further vengeance on his people of Tirawley. 



OWEN BAWN. 

■William de Burgho, third Earl of Ulster, pursued the Angli- 
can policy of his day with so much severity, that the native Irish 
generally withdrew from the counties of Down and Antrim, and 
established themselves in Tyrone, with Hugh Boy O'Neill. Wil- 
liam's rigid prohibition of intermarriages with the natives led to 
his assassination by his own relatives, the Mamlevlllcs, at the Ford 
of Belfast, A. D. 1838. The Irish then returned from beyond the 
river Bann, and expelled the English from all Ulster, except Car- 
rickfergus and the barony of Ards in Down ; and so continued 
until their subjugation by Sir Henry Sidney and Sir Arthur Chi- 
chester, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. 

Simultaneously with the return of tiro Clan Hugh-Boy in the 
north, the great Anglo-Norman families of Connanght adopted 
Irish names and manners, the De Burghos assuming the name of 
Mac William, and all accommodating themselves to the Irish sys- 
tem of life and government, in which, with few exceptions, they 
continued until their subjugation by Sir Richard Bingham, in the 
reign of King Henry the Eighth. 



' The writer has hardly caught the full pathos of that remark- 
able passage translated below, with whioh Duald Mac Firbis, the 
chronicler of Lecan, winds up his account of the retribution thus 
singularly brought on the descendants of Wattin Barrett "It 
was in erio for him (Teaboid Maol Burke) that the Barretts gave 
up to the Burkes eighteen quaters of land : and the share which 
Lynott, the adopted father of Teaboid, asked of this eric, was the 
distribution of the mulct; and the distribution he made of it was, 
that it should be divided throughout all Tir-Amhalgaldh, in order 
that the Burkes might he Btationed In every part of it as plagues 
to the Barretts, and to draw the country from them. And thus 
the Burkes oame over the Barretts in Tir-Amhalgaidh, and took 
nearly the whole of their lands from them ; but at length the 
Saxon heretics of Oliver Cromwell took it from them all In the 
year of our Lord 1652 ; so that now there is neither Barrett nor 
Burke, not to mention the Clan Fiachrach, in possession of any 
lands there."— O'Donovan, TV. and Out. By. Fiach., p. 889. 

* Pronounced, Mac Eeara. 



My Owen Bawn's hair is of thread of gold spun ; 
Of gold in the shadow, of light in the sun ; 
All cuil'd in a coolun the bright tresses are — 
They make his head radiant with beams like a 
star 1 

My Owen Bawn's mantle is long and is wide, 
To wrap me up safe from the storm by his side ; 
And I'd rather face snow-drift and winter-wind 

there, 
Than lie among daisies and sunshine elsewhere. 

My Owen Bawn Quin is a hunter of deer, 
He tracts the dun quarry with arrow and spear- 
Where wild woods are waving, and deep waters 

flow, 
Ah, there goes my love with the dun-dappled roe. 

My Owen Bawn Quin is a bold fisherman, 

He spears the strong salmon in midst of the 

Bann ; 
And rock'd in the tempest on stormy Lough 

Neagh, 
Draws up the red trout through the bursting of 

spray. 

My Owen Bawn Quin is a bard of the best, 

He wakes me with singing, he sings me to rest; 

And the cruit 'neath his fingers rings up with a 
sound, 

As though angels harp'd o'er us, and fays under- 
ground. 

They tell me the stranger has given command 
That crommeal and coolun shall cease in the 

land, 
That all our youths' tresses of yellow be shorn, 
And bonnets, instead, of a new fashion, worn, ; 

That mantles like Owen Bawn's shield us no 
more, 

That hunting and fishing henceforth we give o'er, 
That the net and the arrow aside must be laid, 
For hammer and trowel, and mattock and spade ; 

That the echoes of music must sleep in their 

caves, 
That the slave must forget his own tongue for a 

slave's, 
That the sounds of our lips must be strange in 

our ears, 
And our bleeding hands toil in the dew of our 

tears. 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



sweetheart and comfort! with thee by my 

side, 

1 could love and live happy, whatever betide ; 
But thou, in such bondage, wouldst die ere a 

day — 
Away to Tir-oSn, then, Owen, away ! 

There are wild woods and mountains, and streams 

deep and clear, 
There are loughs in Tir-oen as lovely as here ; 
There are silver harps ringing in Yellow Hugh's 

hall, 
And a bower by the forest side, sweetest of all ! 

We will dwell by the sunshiny skirts of the brake, 
Where the sycamore shadows glow deep in the 

lake; 
And the snowy swan, stirring the green shadows 

there, 
Afloat on the water, seems floating in air. 

Away to Tir-oen, then, Owen, away ! 

We will leave them the dust from our feet for a 

prey, 
And our dwelling in ashes and flames for a spoil — 
Twill be long ere they quench them with streams 

of the Foyle ! 



GRACE O'MALY. 

The return to EDgliah rule and habits of the Anglo-Norman 
families of Connaught who bad Hibernicised after the murder of 
William de Bnrgho, was not effected without a long alienation of 
the popular affections, which had been bestowed upon them as 
freely as on native rulers : " for," to use the words of a contempo- 
rary Irish chronicler, "the old chieftains of Erin prospered 
nnder these princely English lords who were our chief rulers, and 
who had given up their foreignness for a pure mind, and their 
surliness for good manners, and their stubbornness for sweet mild- 
ness, and who had given up their perverseness for hospitality." 1 
During this troubled period of transition, Grace O'Maly, lady of 
Sir Ilickard Burke, styled Mac William Fighter, distinguished 
herself by a life of wayward adventure, which has made her name, 
In its Gaelic form, Grana Uaile (i. e., Grand TJa Mhaile) a per- 
sonification, among the Irish peasantry, of that social state which 
they still consider preferable to the results of a more advanced 
civilization. The real acts and character of the heroine are hardly 
teen through the veil of imagination under which the personified 
idea exists in the popular mind, and is here presented. 

She left the close-air'd land of trees 
And proud Mac William's palace, 

For clear, bare Clare's health-salted breeze, 
Her oarsmen and her galleys : 



1 O'Donovan, Tr. and' Cast, of Ey. Many, p. 186. 



And where, beside the bending strand, 

The. rock and billow wrestle, 
Between the deep sea and the land, 

She built her Island Castle. 

The Spanish captains, sailing by 

For Newport, with amazement 
Beheld the cannon'd longship lie 

Moor'd to the lady's casement ; 
And, covering coin and cup of gold 

In haste their hatches under, 
They whisper'd, " 'Tis a pirate's hold ; 

She sails the seas for plunder 1" 

But no : 'twas not for sordid spoil 

Of bark or seaboard borough 
She plough'd, with unfatiguing toil, 

The fluent-rolling furrow ; 
Delighting, on the broad-back'd deep, 

To feel the quivering galley 
Strain up the opposing hill, and sweep 

Down the withdrawing valley : 

Or, sped before a driving blast, 

By following seas uplifted, 
Catch, from the huge heaps heaving past, 

And from the spray they drifted, 
And from the winds that toss'd the crest 

Of each wide-shouldering giant, 
The smack of freedom and the zest 

Of rapturous life defiant. 

For, oh ! the mainland time was pent 

In close constraint and striving : — 
So many aims together bent 

On winning and on thriving; 
There was no room for generous ease, 

No sympathy for candor ; 
And so she left Burke's buzzing trees, 

And all his stony splendor. 

For Erin yet had fields to spare, 

Where Clew her cincture gathers 
Isle-gemm'd ; and kindly clans were ther% 

The fosterers of her fathers : 
Room there for careless feet to roam 

Secure from minions' peeping, 
For fearless mirth to find a home 

And sympathetic weeping; 

And generous ire and frank disdain 
To speak the mind, nor ponder 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



How this in England, that in Spain, 
Might suit to toll ; as yonder, 

Where daily on the slippery dais, 
By thwarting interests chequer'd, 

State gamesters play the social chess 
Of politic Clanrickard. 



Nor wanting quite the lonely isle 

In civic life's adornings : 
The Brehon's Court might well beguile 

A learned lady's mornings. 
Quaint though the clamorous claim, and rude 

The pleading that convey'd it, 
Right conscience made the judgment good, 

And loyal love obey'd it. 



And music sure was sweeter far 

For ears of native nurture, 
Than virginals at Castlebar 

To tinkling touch of courtier, 
"When harpers good in hall struck up 

The planxty's gay commotion, 
Or pipers scream'd from pennon'd poop 

Their piobroch over ocean. 



And sweet to see, their ruddy bloom 

Whom ocean's friendly distance 
Preserved still unenslaved ; for whom 

No tasking of existence 
Made this one rich, and that one poor, 

In gold's illusive treasure, 
But all, of easy life secure, 

Were rich in wealth of leisure. 



Rich in the Muse's pensive hour, 

In genial hour for neighbor, 
Rich in young mankind's happy power 

To live with little labor ; 
The wise, free way of life, indeed, 

That still, with charm adaptive, 
Reclaims and tames the alien greed, 

And takes the conqueror captive. 



Nor only life's unclouded looks 
To compensate its rudeness ; 

Amends there were in holy books, 
In offices of goodness, 



In cares above the transient scene 
Of little gains and honors, 

That well repaid the Island Queen 
Her loss of urban manners. 



Sweet, when the crimson sunsets glow'd, 

As earth and sky grew grander, 
Adown the grass'd, unechoing road 

Atlanticward to wander, 
Some kinsman's humbler hearth to seek. 

Some sick-bed side, it may be, 
Or, onward reach, with footsteps meek. 

The low, gray, lonely abbey : 



And, where the storied stone beneath 

The guise of plant and creature, 
Had fused the harder lines of faith 

In easy forms of nature ; 
Such forms as tell the master's pains 

'Mong Roslin's carven glories, 
Or hint the faith of Pictish Thanes 

On standing stones of Forres ; 



The Branch ; the weird cherubic Beasta ; 

The Hart by hounds o'ertaken ; 
Or, intimating mystic feasts, 

The sclf-resorbent Dragon ; — 
Mute symbols, though with power endow'd 

For finer dogmas' teaching, 
Than clerk might tell to carnal crowd' 

In homily or preaching ; — 

Sit ; and while heaven's refulgent show 

Grew airier and more tender, 
And ocean's gleaming floor below 

Reflected loftier splendor, 
Suffused with light of lingering faith 

And ritual light's reflection, 
Discourse of birth, and life, and death, 

And of the resurrection. 



But chiefly sweet from morn to eve, 

From eve to clear-eyed morning, 
The presence of the felt reprieve 

From strangers' note and scorning s 
No prying, proud, intrusive foes 

To pity and offend her : 
Such was the life the lady chose ; 

Such choosing, we commend* her. 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



Sallahs anh |poems. 



THE FAIRY THORN. 

AN ULSTER BALLAD. 

" Git up, our Anna dear, from the weary spin- 
ning-wheel ; 
For your fcther's on the hill, and your mother 
is asleep : 
Come up above the crags, and we'll dance a high- 
land reel 
Around the fairy thorn on the steep." 

At Anna Grace's door 'twas thus the maidens 
cried, 
Three merry maidens fair in kirtles of the 
green ; 
And Anna laid the rock and the weary wheel 
aside, 
The fairest of the four, I ween. 

They're glancing through the glimmer of the 
quiet eve, 
Away in milky wavings of neck and ankle 
bare; 
The heavy-sliding stream in its sleepy song they 
leave, 
And the crags in the ghostly air : 

And linking hand and hand, and singing as they 
go, 
The maids along the hill-side have ta'en their 
fearless way, 
Till they come to where the rowan-trees in lonely 
beauty grow 
Beside the Fairy Hawthorn gray. 

The Hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and 
slim, 
Like matron with her twin grand-daughters 
at her knee ; 
The rowan-berries cluster o'er her low head gray 
and dim, 
In ruddy kisses sweet to see. 



The merry maidens four have ranged them in s 
row, 
Between each lovely couple a stately rowan 
stem, 
And away in mazes wavy, like skimming birds 
they go : 
Oh, never caroll'd .bird like them ! 

But solemn is the silence of the silvery haze 
That drinks away their voices in echoless re- 
pose, 
And dreamily the evening has still'd the haunted 
braes, 
And dreamier the gloaming grows. 

And sinking one by one, like lark-notes from the 
sky 
When the falcon's shadow saileth across the- 
open shaw, 
Are hush'd the maidens' voices, as cowering down, 
they lie 
In the flutter of their sudden awe. 

For, from the air above, and the grassy ground 
beneath, 
And from the mountain-ashes and the o«d 
White-thorn between, 
A Power of faint enchantment doth through iuott 
beings breathe, 
And they sink down together on the green. 

They sink together silent, and stealing side to- 
side, 
They fling their lovely arms o'er their droop- 
ing' necks so fail', 
Then vainly strive again their naked arms to» 
hide, 
For their shrinking necks again are bare. 

Thus clasp'd and prostrate all, with their heads 
together bow'd, 
Soft o'er their bosom's beating — the only hu 
man sound — 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



They hear the silky footsteps of tlie sileut fairy 
crowd, 
Like a river in the air, gliding round. 

No scream can any niise, nor prayer can any 
say, 
But wild, wild, the terror of the speechless 
three — 
For they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently 
away, 
By whom they dare not look to see. 

They feel their tresses twine with her parting 
locks of gold, 
And the curls elastic falling, as her head with- 
draws ; 
They feel her sliding arms from their tranced 
arms unfold, 
But they may not look to see the cause : 

For heavy on their senses the faint enchantment 
lies 
Through all that night of anguish and perilous 
amaze ; 
And neither fear nor wonder can ope their quiv- 
ering, eyes, 
Or their limbs from the cold ground raise, 

Till out of night the earth has roll'd her dewy 
side, 
With every haunted mountain and streamy 
vale below ; 
When, as the mist dissolves in the yellow morn- 
ing tide, 
The maidens' trance dissolveth so. 

Then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they may, 
And tell their tale of sorrow to anxious friends 
in vain — 
They pined away and died within the year aEd 
day, 
And ne'er was Anna Grace seen again. 



WILLY GILLILAND. 

AN ULSTER BALLAD. 

Up in the mountain solitudes, and in a rebel 

ring, 
He has worshipp'd God upon the hill, in spite of 

church and king ; 



And seal'd his treason with his blood on Both- 
well bridge he hath ; 

So he must fly his father's land, or he must die 
the death ; 

For comely Claverhouse has come along, with 
grim Dalzell, 

And his smoking roof-tree testifies they've done 
their errand well. 

In vain to fly his enemies he fled his native land ; 
Hot persecution waited him upon the Carrick 

strand ; 
His name was on the Carrick cross, a price was 

on his head, 
A fortune to the man that brings him in alive or 

dead ! 
And so on moor and mountain, from the Lagan 

to the Bann, 
From house to house and hill to hill, he lurk'd 

an outlaw'd man. 

At last, when in false company he might no 
longer bide, 

He stay'd his houseless wanderings upon the 
Collon side, 

There, in a cave all underground, he lair'd his 
heathy den : 

Ah, many a gentleman was fain to earth like hill- 
fox then ! 

With hound and fishing-rod he lived on hill and 
stream by day ; 

At night, betwixt his fleet greyhound and hit 
bonny mare he lay. 

It was a summer evening, and, mellowing and 

still, 
Glenwhirry to the setting sun lay bare from hill 

to hill ; 
For all that valley pastoral held neither houso 

nor tree, 
But spread abroad and open all, a full fair sight 

to see, 
From Slemish foot to Collon top lay one unbroken 

green, 
Save where, in many a silver coil, the river 

glanced between. 

And on the river's grassy bank, even from the 

morning gray, 
He at the angler's pleasant sport had spent the 

summer day : 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



Ah ! manv a time and oft I've spent the summer 
day trom dawn, 

And wonder'd, whes the sunset came, where 
time and care had gone, 

Along the readies curling fresh, the wimpling 
pools and streams, 

Where lie that day his cares forgot in those de- 
lightful dreams. 

His blithe work done, upon a bank the outlaw 

rested now, 
And laid the basket from his back, the bonnet 

from his brow ; 
And there, his hand upon the Book, his knee 

upon the sod. 
He fill'd the lonely valley with the gladsome 

word of God ; 
And for a persecuted kirk, and for her martyrs 

dear, 
And against a godless church and king he spoke 

up loud and clear. 

And now, upon his homeward way, he cross'd 

the Collon high, 
And over bush and bank and brae he sent abroad 

his eye ; 
But all was darkening peacefully in gray and 

purple haze, 
The thrush was silent in the banks, the lark upon 

the braes — 
When suddenly shot up a blaze, from the cave's 

mouth it came ; 
And troopers' steeds and troopers' caps are 

glancing in the same ! 

He couch'd among the heather, and he saw them, 

as he lay. 
With three long yells at parting, ride lightly 

east away : 
Then down with heavy heart he came, to sorry 

cheer came he, 
For ashes black were crackling where the green 

whins used to be, 
And stretch'd among the prickly coomb, his 

heart's blood smoking round, 
From slender nose to breast-bone cleft, lay dead 

his good greyhound ! 

"They've slain my dog, the Philistines! they've 

ta'en my bonny mare !" — 
He plunged into the smoky hole ; no bonny 

beast was there — 



He groped beneath his burning bed (it buin'd 
him to the bone), 

Where his good weapon used to be, but broad- 
sword there was none ; 

He reel'd out of the stifling den, and sat down 
on a stone, 

And in the shadows of the night 'twas thus he 
made his moan^- 



" I am a houseless outcast ; I have neither bed 
nor board, 

Nor living thing to look upon, nor comfort save 
the Lord : 

Yet many a time were better men in worse ex- 
tremity ; 

Who succor'd them in their distress, He now 
will succor me, — 

He now will succor me, I know; and, by Hia 
liolv Name, 

I'll make the doers of this deed right dearly rue 
the same ! 

" My bonny mare ! I've ridden you when Claver'se 

rode behind, 
And from the thumbscrew and the boot you 

bore me like the wind ; 
And, while I have the life you saved, on your 

sleek flank, I swear, 
Episcopalian rowel shall never ruffle hair ! 
Though sword to wield they've left me none — 

yet Wallace wight, I wis, 
Good battle did on Irvine side wi' waur weapon 

than this." — 

His fishing-rod with both his hands he griped it 
as he spoke, 

And, where the butt and top were spliced, in 
pieces twain he broke ; 

The limber top he cast away, with all its gear 
abroad, 

But, grasping the tough hickory butt, with spike 
of iron shod, 

He ground the sharp spear to a point ; then 
pull'd his bonnet down, 

And, meditating black revenge, set forth for Car- 
rick town. 

The sun shines bright on Carrick wall and Car- 
rick Castle gray, 

And up thine aisle, St. Nicholas, has ta'en his 
morning way, 

And to the North-Gate sentinel displayeth, far 
and near, 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



Sea, hill, and tower, and all thereon, in dewy 

fresh new clear, 
Save where, behind a ruin'd wall, himself alone 

to view, 
Is peering from the ivy green a bonnet of the 

bine. 

The sun shines red on Carrick wall and Garriek 

Castle old, 
And all the western buttresses have changed their 

gray for gold ; 
And from thy shrine, Saint Nicholas, the* pilgrim 

of the sky 
Has gone in rich farewell, as fits such royal 

votary ; 
But, as his last red glance he takes down past 

black Slieve-a-true, 
He leaveth where he found it first the bonnet of 

the blue. 



Again he makes the $urrets gray stand out before 
the hill ; 

Constant as their foundation-rock, there is the 
bonnet still ! 

And now the gates are open'd, and forth, in gal- 
lant show, 

Prick jeering grooms and burghers blythe, and 
troopers in a row ; 

But one has little care for jest, so hard bested is 
he 

To ride the outlaw's bonny mare, for this at last 
is she ! 



Down comes her master with a roar, her rider 

with a groan, 
The iron and the hickory are through and 

through him gone ! 
He lies a corpse ; and where he sat, the outlaw 

sits again, 
And once more to his bonny mare he gives the 

spur and rein ; 
Then some with sword, and some with gun, they 

ride and run amain ; 
But sword and gun, and whip and spur, that day 

they plied in vain ! 



Ah ! little thought Willy Gilliland, when he on 

Skerry side 
Drew bridle first, and wiped his brow after that 

weary ride, 



That where he lay like hunted brute, a cavern'd 

outlaw lone, 
Broad lands and yeoman tenantry should yet be 

there his own : 
Yet so it was ; and still from him descendant* 

not a few 
Draw birth and lands, and, let me trust, draw 

love of Freedom too. 



THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. 

Come, see the Dolphin's anchor forged — 'tis at a 

white heat now : 
The bellows ceased, the flames decreased — though 

on the forge's brow 
The little flames still fitfully play through the 

sable mound, 
And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths 

ranking round, 
All clad in leathern panoply, their broad hands 

only bare : 
Some rest upon their sledges here, some work 

the windlass there. 

The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black 

mound heaves below, 
And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at 

every throe : 
It rises, roars, rends all outright — Vulcan, 

what a glow ! 
'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright — the high 

sun shines not so! 
The high sun sees not, on the earth, such fiery 

fearful show, 
The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the 

ruddy lurid row 
Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men 

before the foe, 
As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the 

sailing monster, slow 
Sinks on the anvil : — all about the faces fiery 

grow ; 
" Hurrah !" they shout, " leap oufl — leap out ;" 

bang, bang the sledges go : 
Hurrah ! the jetted lightnings are "hissing high 

and low — 
A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squash- 
ing blow ; 
The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the ra-.tling 

cinders strow 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



The' ground around; at. every bound, the swel- 
tering fountains flow, 

And thick and loud the swinking crowd at every 
stroke pant " ho !" 

Leap out, leap out, my masters ; leap out and 

lay on load ! 
Let's forge a goodly anchor — a bower thick and 

broad ; 
For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I 

bode: 
I see the good ship riding all in a perilous 

road — 
The low reef roaring on her lee — the roll of 

ocean pour'd 
From stem to stern, sea after sea, the mainmast 

by the board, 
The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats 

stove at the chains ! 
But courage still, brave mariners — the bower yet 

remains, 
And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when 

ye pitch sky high ; 
Then moves his head, as though he said, '* Fear 

nothing — here am I." 
Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand 

keep time; 
Your blows make music sweeter far than any 

steeple's chime : 
But, while you sling your sledges, sing — and let 

the burthen be, 
The anchor is the anvil-king, and royal crafts- 
men we ! 
Strike in, strike in — the sparks begin to dull 

their rustling red ; 
Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work 

will soon be sped. 
Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery 

rich array 
For a hammock at the roaring bows, or an oozy 

couch of clay ; 
Our anchor soon must change the lay of merry 

craftsmen here 
For the yeo-heave-o', and the heave-away, and 

the sighing seaman's cheer ; 
When, weighing slow, at eve they go — far, far 

from love and home ; 
And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the 

ocean foam. 

In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at 
last: 



A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat 

was cast : 
O trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst 

life like me, 
What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath 

the deep green sea ! 
O deep-sea diver, who might then behold such 

sights as thou J 
The hoary monster's palaces ! methinks what 

joy 'twere now 
To go plumb plunging down amid the assembly 

of the whales, 
And feel the churn'd sea round me boil beneath 

their scourging tails ! 
Then deep in tangle-woods to fight the fierce sea- 
unicorn, 
And send him foil'd and bellowing back, for all 

his ivory horn : 
To leave the subtle sworder-fish of bony blade 

forlorn ; 
And for the ghastly-grinning shark, to laugh his 

jaws to scorn : 
To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid 

Norwegian isles 
He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallow'd 

miles ; 
Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, off h<s 

rolls ; 
Meanwhile ,to swing, a-buffeting the far-aston- 

ish'd shoals 
Of his back-browsing ocean-calves ; or, haply, in 

a cove, 
Shell-strown, and consecrate of old to some Un- 
dine's love, 
To find the long-hair'd mermaidens ; or, hard by 

icy lands, 
To wrestle with the Sea-serpent, upon cerulean 

sands. 



broad-arm'd Fisher of the deep, whose sports 

can equal thine ? 
The Dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs 

thy cable line ; 
And night by night, 'tis thy delight, thy glory ■ 

day by day, 
Through sable sea and breaker white the giant 

game to play — 
But, shamer of our little sports ! forgive the name 

I gave— 
A fisher's joy is to destroy — thine office is to 



<53G 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



lodger in the sea-kings' halls, couklst thou 


I, of my merry mates, 


but understand 


Foremost was ever ; 


Whose be the white bones by thy side, or who 


Skilfullest with my flute, 


that dripping band, 


Leading the maidens 


Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round 


Heark'ning, by moonlight, mute, 


about thee bend, 


To its sweet cadence : 


With sounds like breakers in a dream blessing 


Sprightliest in the dance 


their ancient friend — 


Tripping together — 


Oh, couldsi thou know what heroes glide with 


Such a one was I once 


larger steps round thee, 


Ere she came hither ! 


Thine iron side would swell with pride ; thou'dst 


Woe was me 


leap within the sea ! 


E'er to see 


Give honor to their memories who left the pleas- 


Beauty so shining-; 


ant strand, 


Ever since, hourly, 


To shed their blood so freely for the love of 


Have I been pining! 


Fatherland — 




Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy 

churchyard grave, 
So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing 


Loud now my comrades laugh 

As I pass by them ; 
Broadsword and quarter-staff, 


Oh, though our anchor may not be all I have 

fondly sung, 
Honor him for their memory, whose bones he 


No more I ply them : 
Coy now the maidens frown, 

Wanting their dances ; 
How can their faces brown 


goes among ! 


Win one, who fancies 




Even an angel's face 




Dark to be seen would 




Be, by the Lily-grace 






Gladd'ning the greenwood? 




Woe was me 


THE FORESTER'S COMPLAINT. 


E'er to see 




Beauty so shining ; 


Through our wild wood-walks here, 


Ever since, hourly, 


Sun-bright and shady, 


Have I been pining ! 


Free as the forest deer, 




Roams a lone lady : 




Far from her castle-keep, 

Down in the valley, 
Roams she, by dingle deep, 


Wolf, by my broken bow, 
Idle is lying, 


While through the woods I go, 


Green holm and alley, 


All the day, sighing, 


With her sweet presence bright 


Tracing her footsteps small 


Gladd'ning my dwelling — 


Through the moss'd cover, 


Oh. fair her face of light, 


Hiding then, breathless all, 


Past the tongue's telling ! 


At the sight of her, 


Woe was me 


Lest my rude gazing should 


E'er to see 


From her haunt scare her— 


Beauty so shining ; 


Oh, what a solitude 


Ever since, hourly, 


Wanting her, there were ! 


Have I been pining ! 


Woe was me 
E'er to see 




Beauty so shining ; 


In our blithe sports' debates, 


Ever since, hourly, 


Down by the river. 


Have I been pining ! 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



THE PRETTY GIRL OF LOCH DAN. 

The shades of eve had cross'd the glen 
That frowns o'er infant Avonmore, 

Wheu, nigh Loch Dan, two weary men, 
We stopp'd before a cottage door. 

" God save all here," ray comrade cries, 
And rattles on the raised latch-pin ; 

"God save you kindly," quick replies 
A clear, sweet voice, and asks us in. 

We enter ; from the wheel she starts, 
A rosy girl, with soft, black eyes ; 

Her fluttering courtesy takes our hearts, 
Her blushing grace and pleased surprise. 

Poor Mary, she was quite alone, 

For, all the way to Glenmalure, 
Her mother had that morning gone, 

And left the house in charge with her. 

But neither household cares, nor yet 
The shame that startled virgins feel, 

Gould make the generous girl forget 
Her wonted hospitable zeal. 

She brought us, in a beechen bowl, 

Sweet milk, that smack'd of mountain thym«, 

Oat cake, and such a yellow roll 
Of butter — it gilds all my rhyme I 

And, while we ate the grateful food 
(With weary limbs on bench reclined), 

Considerate and discreet, she stood 
Apart, and listen'd to the wind. 

Kind wishes both our souls engaged, 
From breast to breast spontaneous ran 

The mutual thought — we stood and pledged 
The Modest Rose above Loch Dan. 

"The milk we drink is not more pure, 

Sweet Mary — bless those budding charms ! — 

Than your own generous heart, I'm sure, 
Nor whiter than the breast it warms 1" 

She turn'd and gazed, unused to hear 
Such language in that homely glen ; 

But, Mary, you have naught to fear, 

Though smiled on by two stranger men. 

Not for a crown would I alarm 
Your virgin pride by word or sign, 



Nor need a painful blush disarm 

My friend of thoughts as pure as mine. 

Her simple heart could not but feel 

The words we spoke were free from guile ; 

She stoop'd, she blush'd — she fix'd her wheel : 
'Tis all in vain — she can't but smile ! 

Just like sweet April's dawn appears 
Her modest face — I see it yet — 

And though T lived a hundred years, 
Methiuks I never could forget 

The pleasure that, despite her heart, 
Fills all her downcast eyes with light, 

The lips reluctantly apart. 

The white teeth struggling into sight, 

The dimples eddying o'er her cheek — 
The rosy cheek that won't be still ! — 

Oh ! who could blame what flatterers speak, 
Did smiles like this reward their skill f 

For such another smile, I vow, 

Though loudly beats the midnight rain. 
I'd take the mountain-side e'en now, 

And walk to Luggelaw again I 



HUNGARY. 
August, 1849. 



Away ! would you own the dread rapture of war 

Seek the host-rolling plain of the mighty Mag- 
yar; 

Where the giants of yore from their mansions 
come down, 

O'er the ocean-wide floor play the game of re- 
nown. 

Hark ! hark ! how the earth 'neath their arma- 
ment reels, 

In the hurricane-charge — in the thunder of 
wheels ; 

How the hearts of the forests rebound as they 
pass, 

In their mantle of smoke, through the quaking 
morass 1 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



God ! the battle is join'd ! Lord Sabaoth, re- 
joice ! 

Freedom thunders her hymn in the battery's 
voice — 

In the soaring hurrah — in the blood-stifled 
moan — 

Sends the voice of her praise to the foot of thy 
throne. 

Oh ! hear, God of freedom, thy people's appeal ; 
Let the edges of slaughter be sharp on their 

steel, 
And the weight of destruction, and swiftness of 

fear, 
Speed death to his mark in their bullets' career 1 

Holy Nature, arise ! from thy bosom in wrath 
Shake the pestilence forth on the enemy's path, 
That the tyrant invaders may march by the road 
Of Sennacherib invading the city of God ! 

As the stars in their courses 'gainst Sisera strove, 
Fight, mists of the fens, in the sick air above ; 
As Scamander his carcasses flnng on the foe, 
Fight, floods of the Theiss, in your torrents be- 
' low ! 

As the snail of the Psalmist consuming away, 
Let the moon-melted masses in silence decay ; 
Till the track of corruption alone in the air 
Shall tell sicken'd Europe the Scythian was there 1 

Stay ! stay ! — in thy fervor of sympathy pause, 
Nor become inhumane in humanity's cause ; 
If the poor Russian slave have to wrong been 

abused, 
Are the ties of Christ's brotherhood all to be 

loosed ? 

The mothers of Moscow who offer the breast 
To their orphans, have hearts, as the mothers of 

Pest; 
Nor are love's aspirations more tenderly drawn 
From the bosoms of youth by the Theiss than 

the Don. 

God of Russian and Magyar, who ne'er hast de- 
sign'd 

Save one shedding of blood for the sins of man- 
kind, 

No demon of battle and bloodshed art thou, 

To the war-wearied nations be pitiful now 1 



Turn the hearts of the kings — let the Macryai 

again 
Reap the harvests of peace on his bountiful plain ; 
And if not with renown, with affections and 

Kves, 
Send the driven serfs home to their children and 

wives 1 — 

But you fill all my bosom with tumult onoe 

more — 
What ! Gorgey surrender'd ! What ! Bern's 

battles o'er ! 
What ! Haynau victorious ! — Inscrutable God ! 
We must wonder, and worship, and bow to thy 

rod. 



ADIEU TO BRITTANY. 

Rugged land of the granite and oak, 
I depart with a sigh from thy shore, 

And with kinsman's affection a blessing invoke 
On the maids and the men of Arvor. 

For the Irish and Breton are kin, 
Though the lights of antiquity pale 

In the point of the dawn where the partings 
begin 
Of the Bolg, and the Kymro, and Gael. 

But, though dim in the distance of time 
Be the low-burning beacons of fame, 

Holy Nature attests us, iu writing sublime, 
On heart and on visage, the same. 

In the dark-eye-lash'd eye of blue-gray. 

In the open look, modest and kind, 
In the face's fine oval reflecting the play 

Of the sensitive, generous mind, 

Till, as oft as by meadow and stream 
With thy Maries and Josephs I roam, 

In companionship gentle and friendly I seem, 
As with Patrick and Brigid at home. 

Green, meadow-fresh, streamy-bright land 1 
Though greener meads, valleys as fair, 

Be at home, yet the home-yearning heart will 
demand, 
Are they blest as in Brittany there ? 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



Demand not — repining is vain : 
Yet, wonld God, that even as thou 

In thy homeliest homesteads, contented Bretagne, 
Were the green isle my thoughts are with 
now ! 

But I call thee not golden : let gold 

Deck the coronal troubadours twine, 
Where the waves of the Loire and Garomna are 
roll'd 
Through the land of the white wheat and 
vine, 

And the fire of the Frenchman goes up 
To the quick-thoughted, dark-flashing eye: 

While Glory and Change, quaffing Luxury's cup, 
Challenge all things below and on high. 

Leave to him — to the vehement man 

Of the Loire, of the Seine, of the Rhone — 

In the Idea's high pathways to march in the van, 
To o'erthrow, and set up the o'erthrown : 

Be it thine in the broad beaten ways 

That the worlds simple seniors have trod, 

To walk with soft steps, living peaceable days, 
And on earth not forgetful of God. 

Nor repine that thy lot has been cast 
With the things of the old time before, 

For to thee are committed the keys of the past, 
O gray, monumental Arvor ! 

Yes, land of the great Standing Stones, 

It is thine at thy feet to survey, 
From thy earlier shepherd-kings' sepulchre- 
thrones 

The giant, far-stretching array ; 

Where, abroad o'er the gorse-cover'd lande, 
Where, along by the slow-breaking wave, 

The hoary, inscrutable sentinels stand 
In their night-watch by History's grave. 

Preserve them, nor fear for thy charge ; 

From the prime of the morning they sprung, 
When the works of young Mankind were lartimg 
and large, 

As the will they embodied was young. 

I have stood on Old Sarum :' the sun, 
With a pensive regard from the west, 



> SorMvdunum, i. e, Servlce-trae fort. 



Lit the beech-tops low down in the ditch of the 
Dun, 
Lit the service-trees high on its crest : 

But the walls of the Roman were shrunk 

Into morsels of ruin around, 
And palace of monarch, and minster of monk, 

Were effaced from the grassy-foss'd ground. 

Like bubbles in ocean, they melt, 
O Wilts, on thy long-rolling plain, 

And at last but the works of the hand of the 
Celt 
And the sweet hand of Nature remain. 

Even so : though, portentous and strange, 
With a rumor of troublesome sounds, 

On his iron way gliding, the Angel of Change 
Spread his dusky wings wide o'er thy bounds — 

He will pass ; there'll be grass on his track, 
And the pick of the miner in vain 

Shall search the dark void : while the stones of 
Carnac 
And the word of the Breton remain. 

Farewell : up the waves of the Ranee, 

See, we stream back our pennon of smoke ; 

Farewell, russet skirt of the fine robe of France, 
Rugged land of the granite and oak ! 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

ON HEARING WEEK-DAT SERVICE THERE, SEP 
TEMBER, 1858. 

From England's gilded halls of state 
I cross'd the Western Minster's gate, 
And, 'raid the tombs of England's dead, 
I heard the Holy Scriptures read. 

The walls around and pillar'd piers 
Had stood well-nigh seven hundred year*; 
The words the priest gave forth bad stood 
Sinee Christ, and since before the Flood. 

A thousand hearts around partook 
The comfort of the Holy Book ; 
Ten thousand suppliant hands were spread 
In lifted stone above my head. 



f.40 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 






In dust decay'd, the hands are gone 

That fed and set the builders on ; 

In heedless dust the fingers lie 

That hew'd and heaved the stones on high; 

And back to earth and air resolved • 

Tim brain that plann'd and poised the vault: 

But. undecay'd, erect, and fair, 

To heaven ascends the builded Prayer, 

With majesty of strength and size, 
With glory of harmonious dyes, 
With holy airs of heavenward thought, 
From floor to roof divinely fraught. 

Fall down, ye bars : enlarge, my soul I 
To heart's content take in the whole ; 
And, spurning pride's injurious thrall, 
With loyal love embrace them all ! 

Yet hold not lightly home ; nor yet 
The graves on Dunagore forget ; 
Nor grudge the stone-gilt stall to change 
For humble bench of Gorman's Grange. 

The self-same Word bestows its cheer 
On simple creatures there as here ; 



And thence, as hence, poor souls do rise 
In social flight to common skies. 

For in the Presence vast and good 
That bends o'er all our livelihood, 
With humankind in heavenly cure, 
We all are like, we all are poor. 

His poor, be sure, shall never want 
For service meet or seemly chant, 
And for the Gospel's joyful sound 
A fitting place shall still be found ; 

Whether the organ's solemn tones 
Thrill through the dust of warriors' bones, 
Or voices of th.e village choir 
From swallow-haunted eaves aspire, 

Or, sped with healing on its wings, 
The Word solicit ears of kings, 
Or stir the souls, in moorland glen, 
Of kingless covenanted men. 

Enough for thee, indulgent Lord, 
The willing ear to hear Thy Word — 
The / rising of the burthen'd breast— 
And thou suppliest all the rest. 



flhraians anfo ^baptdions. • 



THE ORIGIN OF THE SCYTHIANS. 

HERODOTUS (" MELPOMENE"). 

When, o'er Riphsean wastes, the son of Jove 
Slain Geryon's beeves from Erytheia drove, 
Sharp nipp'd the frost, and feathery whirls of 

snow 
Fill'd upper air and hid the earth below. 
The hero on the ground, his steeds beside, 
Spread, shaggy-huge, the dun Nemean hide, 
And, warmly folded, while the tempest swept 
The dreary Hyperborenn desert, slept 



When Hercules awoke and look'd around, 

The milk-white mares were nowhere to be tand. 



Long search'd the hero all the neighboring plain, 
The brakes and thickets ; but he search'd in vain. 
At length he reach'd a gloomy cave, and there 
He found a woman as a goddess fair ; 
A perfect woman downward to the knee, 
But all below, a snake, in coil'd deformity. 

With mutual wonder each the other eyed : 
He question'd of his steeds, and she replied : 
"Hero, thy steeds within my secret halls 
Are safely stabled in enchanted stalls ; 
But if thou thence ray oaptives wouldst remove, 
Thou, captive too, must yield me love for love." 

Won by the price, perchance by passion sway'd, 
Alcides yielded to the monster maid. 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



The steeds recover'd, and the burnish'd car 
Prepared, she said : " Remember, when afar, 
That, sprung from thee, three mighty sons shall 

prove 
Me. not unworthy of a hero's love. 
But when my babes are grown to manhood, 

where 
WouLdst thou thy sons should seek a father's 

care f" 

The soft appeal e'en stern Alcides felt — 

And, " Take," he said, " this bow and glittering 

belt"— 
From his broad breast the baldrick he unslung 
(A golden phial from its buckle hung), — 
"And, when my sons are grown to man's estate, 
Him whom thou first shalt see decline the weight 
Of the great belt, or fail the bow to bend, 
To Theban Hercules, his father, send 
For tutelage ; but him whom thou shalt see 
Thus bear the belt, thus bend the bow, like me, 
Naught further needing, by thy side retain, 
The destined monarch of the northern plain." 

He went : the mighty mother, at a birth, 
Gave Gelou, Aeathyrs, and Scyth 1 to earth. 
To early manhood grown, the former twain 
Essay'd to bear the belt and bow in vain ; 
And, southward banish'd from their mother's 

face, 
Sought lighter labors in the fields of Thrace: 
While, far refulgent over plain and wood, 
Herculean Scyth the glittering belt indued, 
And, striding dreadful on his fields of snow, 
With aim unerring twaug'd his father's bow. 
From him derived, the illustrious Scythian name, 
And all the race of Scythian monarchs came. 



THE DEATH OF DERMID. 

IRISH KOMANCB. 

King Cormao had affianced his daughter Grania to Finn, 8on of 
Comlial, the Finn Mac Coole of Irish, and Fingai of Scottish tra- 
dition. In addition to his warlike accomplishments, Finn was 
reported to have obtained the gifts of poetry, serond-sight, and 
healing, in the manner referred to below. On bis personal intro- 
duction, his age and aspect proved displeasing to Grania, who 
threw herself on the gallantry of Dermid, the handsomest of Finn's 
attendant warriors, and induced him reluctantly to fly with her. 
Their pursuit by Finn forms the subject of one of the most popu- 
lar native Irisb romances. In the course of their wanderings. 



Dermid, having pursued a wild boar, met the fate of Adonis, who 
appears to have been his prototype in the Celtic imagination. 
Finn, arriving on the scene just before his rival's death, giver 
occasion to the most pathetic passage of the taie, which, at thhl 
point, is comparatively free from the characteristics of vulgarity 
and extravagance attaching to the rest of the composition. The 
incidents of the original ttre followed In the piece below, which 
however, does not profess to tie a translation. The ori-inil im.y 
be perused in the spirited version of Mr. O'Grady : "Publications 
of the Irish Ossianic Society," vol. iii„ p. 1SS. It is from this 
Dermid that Highland tradition draws the genealogy of the Clan 
Campbell— 

"The race of brown Dermid who slew the wild boar." 



Finn on the mountain found the mangled man, 
The slain boar by him. " Dermid," said the king, 
"It likes me well at last to see thee thus. 
This only grieves me, that the womankind 
Of Erin are not also looking on : 
Such sight were wholesome for the wanton eyes 
So oft enamor'd of that specious form : 
Beauty to foulness, strength to weakness turn'd." 

"Yet in thy power, if only in thy will, 
Lies it, Finn, even yet to heal me " 

"How}" 

"Feign not the show of ignorance, nor deem 
I know not of the virtues which thy hand 
Drew from that fairy's half-discover'd hall, 
Who bore her silver tankard from the fountr— 
So closely follow'd, that ere yet the door 
Could close upon her steps, one arm was in ; 
Wherewith, though seeing naught, yet touching 

all, 
Thou graspedst half the spiritual world ; 
Withdrawing a heap'd handful of its gifts — 
Healing, and sight prophetic, and the power 
Divine of poesy : but healing most 
Abides within its hollow : — virtue such 
That but so much of water as might wet 
These lips, in thai hand brought, would make 

me whole. 
Finn, from the fountain fetch me in thy palms 
A draught of water, and I yet shall live." 

" How at these hands canst thou demand thy life, 
Who took'st my joy of life ?" 

" She loved thee not, : 
Me she did love, and doth ; and were she here 
She would so plead with thee, that, for her sake, 
Thou wouldst forgive us both, and bid me live." 

" I was a man had spent my prime of years 
In war and council, little bless'd with love ; 



f 



642 



TOEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



Though poesy was mine, and, in my hour, 

The seer's burthen not desirable ; 

And now at last had thought to haie man's 

share 
Of marriage blessings; and the King supreme, 
Cormac, had pledged his only daughter mine ; 
When thou, with those pernicious beauty-gifts 
The flashing white tusk there hath somewhat 

spoil'd, 
Didst win her to desert her father's house, 
And roam the wilds with thee." 

" It was herself, 
Orania, the Princess, put me in the bonds 
Of holy chivalry to share her flight. 
' Behold,' she said, ' he is an aged man 
(And so thou art, for years will come to all), 
And I so young ; and, at the Beltane games, 
When Carbry Liffacher did play the men 
Of Brea, I, unseen, saw thee snatch a hurl, 
And thrice on Tara's champions' win the goal ; 
And gave thee love that day, and still will give.' 
So she herself avow'd. Resolve me, Finn, 
Fur thou art just, could youthful warrior, sworn 
To maiden's service, have done else than I ? 
.No : hate me not — restore me — give me drink." 

*I will not." 



" Nay, but, Finn, thou hadst not said 
•I will not,' though I'd ask'd a greater boon, 
That night we supp'd in Breendacoga's lodge. 
Remember : we were faint and hunger-starved 
From three days' flight ; and even as on the 

board 
They placed the viands, and my hand went forth 
To raise the wine-cup, thou, more quick of ear, 
O'erheard'st the stealthy leaguer set without ; 
And yet shouldst eat or perish. Then 'twas I, 
Fasting, that made the sally ; and 'twas I, 
Fasting, that made the circuit of the court; 
Three times I coursed it, darkling, round and 

round ; 
From whence returning, when I brought thee in 
The three lopp'd heads of them that lurk'd with- 
out— 
Thou hadst not then, refresh'd and grateful, said 
' I will not,' had I ask'd thee, ' Give me drink.'" 



i champions," ar ghawa Ttamhrach. The Idiom 



1 There springs no water on this summit bald." 



" Nine paces from the spot thou standest on, 
The well-eye — well thou know'st it — bubbles 
clear." 



Abash'd, reluctant, to the bubbling well 
Went Finn, and scoop'd the water in his palms ; 
Wherewith returning, half-way., came the thought 
Of Grania, and he let the water spill. 



"Ah me," said Dermid, "hast thou then forgot 
Thy warrior-art, that oft, when helms were split, 
And buckler-bosses shatter'd by the spear, 
Has satisfied the thirst of wounded men ? 
Ah, Finn, these hands of thine were not so slack 
That night when, captured by the King of Thule, 
Thou lay'st in bonds within the temple gate 
Waiting for morning, till the observant king 
Should to his sun-j/od make thee sacriSce. 
Close-pack'd thy fingers then, thong-drawn and 

squeezed, 
The blood-drops oozing under every nail, 
When, like a shadow, through the sleeping 

priests 
Came I, and loosed thee : and the hierophant 
At day-dawn coming, on the altar-step, 
Instead of victim straigbten'd to his knife, 
Two warriors found, erect, for battle arm'd." 

Again abash'd, reluctant to the well 
Went Finn, and scoop'd the water in his palms, 
Wherewith returning, half- way, came the thought 
That wrench'd him ; and the shaken water 
spiil'd. 



" False one, thou didst it purposely ! I swear 
I saw thee, though mine eyes do fast grow dim. 
Ah me, how much imperfect still is man ! 
Yet such were not the act of Him, whom once 
On this same mountain, as we sat at eve — 
Thou yet mayest see the knoll that was our couch, 
A stone's throw from the spot where now I lie — 
Thou show'dst me, shuddering, when the seer'i 

fit, 
Sudden and cold as hail, assail'd thy soul 
In vision of that Just One crucified 
For all men's pardoning, which, once again, 
Thou saw'st, with Cormac, struck in Rossnaree." 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



643 



Finn trembled, and a third time to the well 
Went straight, and scoop'd the water in his 

palms ; 
"Wherewith in haste half-way return'd, he saw 
A smile on Dermid's face relax'd in death. 



THE INVOCATION. 



Jot of the world, divine delight of Love, 
Who with life-sowing footsteps soft dost move 
Through all the still stars from their sliding 

stands 
See, fishy seas, and fruit-abounding lands ; 
Bringing to presence of the gracious sun 
All living things : thee blights and vapors shun, 
And thine advent : for thee the various earth 
Glows with the rose : for thee the murmurous 

mirth 
Of ocean sparkles ; and, at thy repair, 
Diffusive bliss pervades the placid air. 
For, see, forthwith the blandness of the Spring 
Begins, and Zephyr's seasonable wing 
Wantons abroad in primal lustihood, 
Srait with sweet pangs the wing'd aerial brood 
Of pairing birds proclaim thy reign begun ; 
Thence through the fields where pasturing cattle 

run, 
Runs the soft frenzy, all the savage kind, 
Touch'd with thy tremors in the wanton wind, 
Prancing the plains, or through the rushing 

floods 
Cleaving swift ways : thou, who through waving 

woods, 
Tall mountains, fishful seas, and leafy bowers 
Of nestling birds, keep'st up the joyous hours, 
Making from age to age, bird, beast, and man 
Perpetuate life and time; — aid thou my plan. 



ARCUrTAS AND THE MARINER. 

HORAT. OP. I. 28. 
MARINER. 

Thee, of the sea and land and unsumm'd sand 
The Mensurator 



The dearth of some poor earth from a friend'* 
hand 
Detains, a waiter 
For sepulture, here on the Matine strand ; 

Nor aught the better 
Art thou, Archytas, now, in thought to hart 
spann'd 
Pole and equator ! 



The sire of Pelops, too, though guest and host 
Of Gods, gave up the ghost : 

Beloved Tithonus into air withdrew : 
And Minos, at the council-board of Jove 
Once intimate above, 

Hell holds ; and hell with strict embrace anew 
Constrains Panthoi'des, for all his lore, 
Though by the shield he bore 

In Trojan jousts, snatch'd from the trophied 
fane, 
He testified that death slays naught within 
The man, but nerve and skin ; 

But bore his witness and his shield in vain. 
For one night waits us all ; one downward road 
Must by all feet be trod : 

All heads at last to Prosperine must come : 
The furious Fates to Mars's bloody shows 
Cast these : the seas whelm those : 

Commix'd and close, the young and old troop 
home. 
Me also, prone Orion's comrade swift, 
The South-wind, in the drift 

Of white Illyrian waves, caught from the day : 
But, shipmate, thou refuse not to my dead 
Bones and unburied head, 

The cheap poor tribute of the funeral clay ! 
So, whatsoe'er the East may foam or roar 
Against the Hesperian shore, 

Let crack Venusia's woods, thou safe and free; 
While great God Neptune, the Tarentine's trust, 
And Jupiter the just, 

With confluent wealth reward thy piety. 
Ah ! wouldst thou leave me ? wouldst thon 

leave, indeed, 
Thy unoffending seed 

Under the dead man's curse? Beware 1 the 
day 
May come when thou sbalt suffer equal wrong: 
Give — 'twill not keep thee long — 

Three handfuls of sea-sand, and go thy way. 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



ftmions from ijje |risj|. 



An apology Is needed for the rudeness of some of the following 
pieces. Irish poetical remains consist chiefly of bardic composi- 
tions and songs of the conn-try, of which the examples here given 
could not be candidly rendered without some reflection of certain 
faults of the originals. The former class have inherent vices, re- 
sulting from Hie conditions of their production. The office of the 
bard required skid in music, a retentive memory, and a knowledge 
of the common forms of panegyric, rather than original genius. 
A large proportion of these compositions consisted of adulatory 
odes addressed to protectors and patrons. Many of the best 
musical p.riorm inces of Carolan are as-oeiated with words of this 
character, and exhibit an Incongruous union of noble sounds and 
mean ideas. It has been usual, in giving him u ml the later harpers 
the credit which they well merit for originality ami fertility in the 
production of melodies, Co include their odes and songs, us efforts 
of poetic genius, in the o^unendation ; but these portions of the 
coinpoMLions are generally made up of gross flatteries and the con- 
ventionalizes of the Pantheon. The images and sentiments are In 
tit much alike; and it is rarely that an original thought repays the 
trouble of the translator. In celebrating some of the ladies of 
Families who patronized biin. Carolan has, however, produced a few 
pieces in which the words are not unworthy of the music. He 
was sensible of the charms of grace and virtue, and although In- 
capable of distinguishing between elegant and vulgar forms of 
praise, has in these instances expressed genuine sentiments of ad- 
miration with a great degree of natural and affectionate tenderness 
—united, it must, be remembered, with original and beautiful 
music. One of these pieces, "Grace Nugent,' 11 although too full 
of the stock phrases of the adulatory school, is perhaps the most 
pleasing of its class. In addressing one of his male patronB also, 
In "The Cup of O'Hara," 3 he exhibits some originality in trans- 
ferring to Ids friend's wassail-cup the praises which were usually 
lavished on personal excellencies. It is auiong the country songs, 
however, that the greatest amount and variety of characteristic 
composition is found. In these we must not expect quite so much 
refinement as is found in the pieces composed by the bards and 
harpers, most of which have been transmitted in writing: for the 
songs have only been preserved orally by the peasantry, who 
would naturally prefer such versions as suited their more homely 
tastes. If others of a more refined character have ever existed, 
they are not now forthcoming ; but it is probable that at all times 
the songs of the native Irish have been of the same homely de- 
scription as those which remain: for, before the introduction of 
English manners, there existed an almost complete personal 
equality among individuals of all ranks. It is still usual in some 
parts of the west of Ireland for the native population to use the 
Christian names of those to whom they speak, whatever may be 
the rank of the person addressed. These primitive manners ad- 
mitted of but little difference in the modes of expressing Ideas 
common to all; and, if we make a moderate allowance for the 
corruptions which most of these pieces have undergone In their 
transmission through more or less numerous generations of the 
populace, we shall probably be safe in taking them as approximate 
indexes of the tone and taste of native Irish society, In the castle 
as well as In the cabin. It has been the opinion of many Judges 
in oritlclBm that such a state of manners is the one most favorable 
to the development of the poetic faculty. Certainly, the lyrical 
pieces produced during such a phase of society afford a fuller in- 
sight into the humors and genius of a people than the offspring of 
any other period In Its progress. It is not probable that the rural 



> Bee page 195. 



1 See page 196. 



populace will ever again produce any thing comparable to these 
effusions of a ruder age; though the cultivated intellect and tasU 
of the upper class, using the vehicle of a more copious though less 
fluent language, and applying itself to the wider range of ideas 
incident to an advanced state of civilization, may fairly hope to 
attain ft much greater excellence: for, to say the truth, notwith- 
standing the strength of passion and abundance of sentiment and 
humor expressed in the country songs of the Irish, they have 
little vigor of thought and but a moderate degree of art in their 
structure: but not even the songs of Burns express sentiment 
more charmingly. Even in those dedicated to festivity and the 
chase, a sweet and delicate pathos mingles with the ordinary 
topics, which it Is as difficult to catch in translation, as it. is in 
music to define or analyze the characteristic tones and turns of 
the melody. The general structure of the melody is, with few 
exceptions, the same in all. A writer to whom Ireland is hugely 
indebted in almost all the departments of art and literature. Dr. 
Petrie, thus describes their peculiar arrangement: "'They are 
formed, for the most part, of four strains of equal length. The 
first soft, pathetic, and subdued ; the second ascends in the scale, 
and becomes bold, energetic, and impassioned; the third, a repe- 
tition of the second, is sometimes a little varied and more florid, 
and leads, often by a graceful or melancholy p:issage, to the fourth, 
which is always a repetition of the first" The same writer has 
beautifully and truly compared the effect of the last part follow- 
ing the bold and surcharged strains of the second and third, to the 
dissolution In genial showers of a summer cloud. Tins progress 
of the melody is orten reflected in the structure of the song, 
which, beginning plaintively and tenderly, mounts with the muslo 
In vehemence, and subsides with it in renewed tenderness at the 
conclusion of the stanza. This analogy between the sentiment 
and melody runs through many of the following pieces, as, lor ex- 
ample, the naive and rustic but tender song of "The Co«lun,"> 
and maybe observed In the passionate old 6train "Cean Dubh 
Dcellsh,"* where the energy of the middle part of the piece is 
also associated with one of those duplications of the rhythm 
which constitute a peculiar characteristic of Irish song-writing. 
It is difficult in English to imitate these duplications and crassi- 
tudes, which give so much of its effect to the original, where, 
owing to the pliancy of the sounds, several syllables are often, as 
it were, fused together, and internal rhymes and correspondences 
produced within the body of the line: sucb as, for example, in 
"The" 



O Whillan, rough, bold-faced rock, that stoop'at o'er the bay,. 
Look forth at the new bark beneath me cleaving her way ; 
Saw ye ever, on sea or river, 'mid the mounting of spray, 
Boat made of a tree that urges through the surges like mine to-day, 
On the tide-top, the tide-top t 

"I remember," says Whillan, "a rock I have ever been ; 
And constant my watch, each day, r ■'— a 



But of all that I ever of barks and of galleys 
This that urges through the 



e surges beneath you to-dhy is 



tide-top, the tide-top. 11 



It is a significant fact that some of the best of the native amatory 
songs appear to have been the compositions of men in outlawry 
and in misery. In the " County Leitrhn," the fear of famine min- 
gles with the ardor of desire; and scarcity and poverty entef 




CARDIGAN' 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



isTjroly into the sentiment of " Cashel of Munster.' n A large 
number also of this cJass of compositions are songs of humble 
life. Soi;ie of these, such ss"Youghall Harbor," 2 despite the 
rusticity of the topics, bespeak much generous feeling and eensi- 
bility ; and, as regards all, the observation may be made that they 
are wadded to strains of music wonderfully various, expressive, 
and sweet to native ears. The production either of melodies or 
of Hcjompanying words has now wholly ceased ; and the language 
itself, within another generation, will probably be no longer spoken 



DEIRDRA'S FAREWELL TO ALBA. 

OLD IRISH ROMANCE." 

Farewell to fair Alba, high house of the sun, 
Farewell to the mountain, the cliff, and the dun; 
Dun Sweeny, adieu ! for my love cannot stay, 
And tarry I may not when love cries away. 

Glen Vashan ! Glen Vashan ! where roebucks 

run free, 
Where my love used to feast on the red deer 

with me, 
Where rock'd on thy waters while stormy winds 

blew, 
My love used to slumber — Glen Vashan, adieu ! 

Glendaro ! Glendaro ! where birchen boughs 

weep 
Honey dew at high noon o'er the nightingale's 

sleep, 
Where my love used to lead me to hear the 

cuckoo 
'Mong the high hazei bushes — Glendaro, adieu ! 

Glen Uvchy ! Glen XJrchy ! where loudly and 

long 
My love used to wake up the woods with his song, 
While the son of the rock, 1 from the depths of 

the dell, 
Laugh'd sweetly in answer — Glen TJrchy, farewell ! 

Glen Etive! Glen Etive! where dappled does 

roam, 
Where I leave the green sheeling I first call'd a 

home ; 
Where with me and my true love delighted to 

dwell, 
The sun made his mansion — Glen Etive, farewell ! 



> See pasra 112. » See page 112. 

' Tho tale of the tragical fate of the sods of UBnach, from which 
this iind the following piece have been taken, may bo seen in the 
"Transactions of the Iberno-Celtic Society," Dublin, 1808; and in 
ihe •• Atlantis," Dublin. 1S60. 

4 Son of the rock, i. e., Echo. 



Farewell to Inch Draynach, adieu to the roar 
Of the blue billows bursting in light on the shore ; 
Dun Fiagh, farewell ! for my love cannot stay, 
And tarry I may not when love cries away. 



DEIRDRA'S LAMENT FOR THE SONS OF 
USNACH. 

OLD IRISH ROMANCE. 

The lions of the hill are gone, 
And I am left alone — alone : 
Dig the grave both wide and deep, 
For I am sick, and fain would sleep t 

The falcons of the wood are flown, 
And I am left alone — alone : 
Dig the grave both deep and wide, 
And let us slumber side by side. 

The dragons of the rock are sleeping, 
Sleep that wakes not for our weeping : 
Dig the grave, and make it ready ; 
Lay me on my true-love's body. 

Lay their spears and bucklers bright 
By the warriors' sides aright ; 
Many a day the three before me 
On their linked bucklers bore me. 

Lay upon the low grave floor, 
'Neath each head, the blue claymore; 
Many a time the noble three 
Redden'd these blue blades for me. 

Lay the collars, as is meet, 
Of their greyhounds at their feet; 
Many a time for me have they 
Brought the tall red deer to bay. 

In the falcon's jesses throw 
Hook and arrow, line and bow ; 
Never again by stream or plain 
Shall the gentle woodsmen go. 

Sweet companions ye were ever- 
Harsh to me, your sister, never ; 
Woods and wilds and misty valleys 
Were, with you, as good's a palace. 

Oh ! to hear my true love singing, 
Sweet as sound of trumpets ringing : 



POEMS OK SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



Like the sway of ocean swelling 

Roll'd his deep voice round our dwelling. 

Oh ! to hear the echoes pealing 
Round our green and fairy sheeling, 
When the three, with soaring chorus, 
Pass'd the silent skylark o'er us. 

Echo, now sleep, morn and even — 
Lark alone enchant the heaven ! — 
Ardan's lips are scant of breath, 
Neesa's tongue is cold in death. 

Stag, exult on glen and mountain — 
Salmon, leap from loch to fountain- 
Heron, in the free air warm ye — 
Usuacli's sons no more will harm ye ! 

Erin's stay no more you are, 
Rulers of the ridge of war; 
Never more 'twill be your fate 
To keep the beam of battle straight ! 

Woe is me ! by fraud and wrong, 
Traitors false and tyrants strong, 
Fell Clan Usnach, bought and sold, 
For Barach's feast and Conor's gold ! 

Woe to Eman, roof and wall ! — 
Woe to Red Branch, hearth and hall ! — 
Tenfold woe acd black dishonor 
To the foul and false Clan Conor ! 

Dig the grave both wide and deep, 
Sick I am, and fain would sleep ! 
Dig the grave and make it ready, 
Lay me on my true love's body ! 



DOWNFALL OF THE GAEL. 



O GNIVE," BARD OF O NEILL. 



Mr heart is in woe, 
And my soul deep in trouble,- 

For the mighty are low, 
And abased are the noble: 



O'Gulve. now Aznew. 



The Sons of the Gael 
Ate in exile and mourning, 

Worn, weary, and pale, 
As spent pilgrims returning , 

Or men who, in flight 
From the field of disaster, 

Beseech the black night 
On their flight to fall faster ; 

Or seamen aghast 
When their planks gape asunder, 

And the waves fierce and fast 
Tumble through in hoarse thunder j 

Or men whom we see 
That have got their death-omen— 

Such wretches are we 
In the chains of our foemen 1 

Our courage is fear, 
Our nobility vileness, 

Our hope is despair, 
And our comeliness foulness. 

There is mist on our heads, 
And a cloud chill and hoary 

Of black sorrow, sheds 
An eclipse on our glory. 



From Boyne to the Linn 
Has the mandate been given, 

That the children of Finn 
From their country be driven. 

That the sons of the king — 
Oh, the treason and malice ! — 

Shall no more ride the ring 
In their own native valleys ; 

No more shall repair 
Where the hill foxes tarry, 

Nor forth to the air 
Fling the hawk at her quarry 

For the plain shall be broke 
By the share of the stranger, 

And the stone-mason's stroke 
Tell the woods of their danger ; 

The green hills and shore 
Be with white keeps disfigured, 

And the Mote of Rathmore 
Be the Saxon churl's haggard! 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



The land of the lakes 


Who in Erin's cause would stand, 


Shall no more know the prospect 


Brothers of the avenging band, 


Of valleys and brakes — 


He must wed immortal quarrel, 


So transform'd is her aspect ! 


Pain and sweat and bloody peril. 


The Gael cannot tell, 


On the mountain bare and steep, 


In the uprooted wildwood 


Snatching short but pleasant sleep, 


And red ridgy dell, 


Then, ere sunrise, from his eyrie, 


The old nurse of his childhood : 


Swooping on the Saxon quarry. 


The nurse of his youth 


What although you've fail'd to keep 


Is in doubt as she views him, 


Liffey's plain or Tara's steep, 


If the wan wretch, in troth, 


Cashel's pleasant streams to save, 


Be the child of her bosom. 


Or the meads of Croghan Maev ; 


We starve by the board, 


Want of conduct lost the town, 


And we thirst amid wassail — 


Broke the white-wall'd castle down, 


For the guest is the lord, 


Moira lost, and old Taltin, 


And the host is the vassal I 


And let the conquering stranger in. 


Through the woods let us roam, 


'Twas the want of right command, 


Through the wastes wild and barren; 


Not the lack of heart or hand, 


We are strangers at home I 


Left your hills and plains to-day 


We are exiles in Erin! 


'Neath the strong Clan Saxon's sway. 


And Erin's a bark 


Ah, had heaven never sent 


O'er the wide waters driven I 


Discord for our punishment, 


And the tempest howls dark, 


Triumphs few o'er Erin's host 


And her side planks are riven ! 


Had Clan London now to boast ! 


And in billows of might 


Woe is me, 'tis God's decree 


Swell the Saxon before her, — 

Unite, oh, unite ! 
Or the billows burst o'er her ! 


Strangers have the victory : 
Irishmen may now be found 
Outlaws upon Irish ground. 




Like a wild beast in his den 
Lies the chief by hill and glen, 






While the strangers, proud and savage, 




Criffan's richest valleys ravage. 


CBYENE'S BARD TO THE CLANS OF 




WICKLOW. 


Woe is me, the foul offence, 


Cir. 1580. 


Treachery and violence, 




Done against my people's rights — 


God be with the Irish host, 


Well may mine be restless nights ! 


Never be their battle lost ! 




For, in battle, never yet 


When old Leinster's sons of fame, 


Have they basely earn'd defeat. 


Heads of many a warlike name, 




Redden their victorious hilts 


Host of armor red and bright, 


On the Gaul, my soul exults. 


May ye fight a valiant fight ! 




For the green spot of the earth, 


When the grim Gaul, who have come 


For the land that gave you birth. 


Hither o'er the ocean foam, 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



From llie fight victorious go, 


Was a time when bells were tinkling. 


Then my heart sinks deadly low. 


Clergy preaching peace abroad. 




Psalms a-singing, music ringing, 


Bless the Wades our warriors draw. 


Praises to the mighty God. 


God he with Clan Ranelagh ! 




But my soul is weak for fear, 


Empty aisle, deserted chancel, 


Thinking of their dauger here. 


Tower tottering to your fall, 




Many a storm since then has beaten 


Have them in thy holy keeping, 


On the gray head of ycur wall ! 


God be with them lying sleeping, 




God be with them standing fighting, 


Many a bitter storm and tempest 


Erin's foes in battle smiting! 


Has your roof-tree turn'd away, 




Since you first were form'd a temple 




To the Lord of night and day. 




Holy house of ivied gables, 


LAMENT OVER THE RUINS OF THE 


That wert once the country's pride, 


ABBEY OF TIMOLEAGUE. 


Houseless now in weary wandering 


John Collins — died 1616. 


Roam your inmates far and wide. 


Lone and weary as I wander'd 


Lone you are to-day, and dismal, — 


By tie bleak shore of the sea, 


Joyful psalms no more are heard 


Meditating and reflecting 


Where, within your choir, her vesper 


On the world's hard destiny ; 


Screeches the cat-headed bird. 


Forth the moon and stars 'gan glimmer, 


Ivy from your eaves is growing, 


In the quiet tide beneath, — 


Nettles round your green hearth-stone, 


For on slumbering spray and blossom 


Foxes howl, where, in your corners, 


Breathed not out of heaven a breath. 


Dropping waters make their moan. 


On I went in sad dejection, 


Where the lark to earjy matins 


Careless where my footsteps bore, 


Used your clergy forth to call, 


Till a ruin'd church before me 


There, alas ! no tongue is stirring, 


Open'd wide its ancient door, — 


Save the daw's upon the wall. 


Till I stood before the portals, 


Refectory cold and empty, 


"Where of old were wont to be, 


Dormitory bleak and bare, 


For the blind, the halt, and leper, 


Where are now your pious uses, 


Alms and hospitality. 


Simple bed and frugal fare ? 


Still the ancient seat was standing, 


Gone your abbot, rule and order, 


Built against the buttress gray, 


Broken down your altar-stones ; 


Where the clergy used to welcome 


Naught see I beneath your shelter, 


Weary travellers on their way. 


Save a heap of clayey bones. 


There I sat me down in sadness, 


Oh ! the hardship, oh ! the hatred. 


'Neath my cheek I placed my hand, 


Tyranny, and cruel war, 


Till the tears fell hot and briny 


Persecution and oppression, 


Down upon the grassy land. 


That have left you as you are I 


There, I said in woeful sorrow, 


I myself once also prosper'd ; — 


Weeping bitterly the while, 


Mine is, too, au alter'd plight ; 


Was a time when joy and gladness 


Trouble, cave, and age have left me 


Reign'd within this ruin'd pile; — 


Good for naught but grief to-night 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



Gone, my motion and my vigor, — 
Gone, the use of eye and ear ; 

At my feet lie friends and children, 
Powerless and corrupting here : 

Woe is written on my visage, 
In a uut my heart would lie — 

Death's deliverance were welcome — 
Father, let the old man die. 



TO THE HARPER O'CONNELLAN. 

Enchanter who reignest 

Supreme o'er the North, 
Who hast wiled the coy spirit 

Of true music forth ; 
In vain Europe's minstrels 

To honor aspire, 
When thy swift slender fingers 

Go forth on the wire ! 

There is no heart's desire 

Can be felt by a king, 
That thy hand cannot match 

From the soul of the string, 
By its conquering, capturing, 

Magical sway, 
For, charmer, thou stealest 

Thy notes from a fay ! 

Enchanter, I say, — 

For thy magical skill 
Can soothe every sorrow, 

And heal every ill : 
Who hear thee they praise thee; 

They weep while they praise ; 
For, charmer, from Fairyland 

Fresh are thy lays 1 



GRACE NUGENT. 

CAROLAN. 



Brightest blossom of the Spring, 
Grace, the sprightly girl I sing : 
Grace, who bore the palm of mind 
From all the rest of womankind. 



Whomsoe'er the fates decree, 
Happy fate ! for life to be 
Day and night my Coolun near, 
Ache or pain need never fear ! 

Her neck outdoes the stately swan, 
Her radiant face the summer dawn : 
Ah, happy thrice the youth for whom 
The fates design that branch of bloom ! 
Pleasant are your words benign, 
Rich those azure eyes of thine : 
Ye who see my queen, beware 
Those twisted links of golden hair ! 

This is what I fain would say 
To the bird-voiced lady gay, — 
Never yet conceived the heart 
Joy which Grace cannot impart : 
Fold of jewels ! case of pearls 1 
Coolun of the circling curls ! 
More I say not, but no less 
Drink you health and happiness ! 



MDLD MABEL KELLY. 

CAROLAN. 

Whoever the youth who by Heaven's decree 
Has his happy right hand 'neath that bright 
head of thine, 

'Tis certain that he 
From all sorrow is free 
Till the day of his death, if a life so divine 
Should not raise him in bliss above mortal de- 
gree : 
Mild Mabel-ni-Kelly, bright Coolun of curls, 

All stately and pure as the swan on the lake ; 
Her mouth of white teeth is a palace of pearls, 
And the youth of the land are love-sick for 
her sake ! 

No strain of the sweetest e'er heard in the land 
That she knows not to sing, in a voice so en- 
chanting, 

That the cranes on the strand 
Fall asleep where they stand ; 
Oh, for her blooms the rose, and the lily ne'er 
wanting 
To shed its mild radiance o'er bosom or hand : 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



The dewy blue blossom that hangs on the spray, 
More blue than her eye, human eye never saw, 

Deceit never lu-rk'd in its beautiful ray, — 
Dear lady, I drink to you, slainte go bragh ! 



THE CUP OF O'HARA. 



Were I west in green Arran, 

Or south in Glanmore, 
Where the long ships come laden 

With claret in store; 
Yet I'd lather than shiploads 

Of claret, and ships, 
Have your white cup, O'Hara, 

Up full at my lips. 

But why seek in numbers 

Its virtues to tell, 
When O'Hara's own chaplain 

Has said, saying well, — 
"Turlogh, 1 bold son of Brian, 

Sit ye down, boy, again, 
Till we drain the great cupattn 

In another health to Keane.'" 



THE FAIR-HAIR'D GIRL. 

IRISH SONG. 

The sun has set, the stars are still, 
The red moon hides behind the hill ; 
The tide has left the brown beach bare, 
The birds have fled the upper air ; 
Upon her branch the lone cuckoo 
Is chanting still her sad adieu ; 
And you, my fair-hair'd girl, must go 
Across the salt sea under woe ! 

I through love have learn'd three things, 
Sorrow, sin, and death it brings ; 
Yet day by day my heart within 
Dares shame and sorrow, death and sin : 
Maiden, you have aim'd the dart 
Rankling in my ruin'd heart : 



Maiden, may the God above 
Grant you grace to grant me love ! 

Sweeter than the viol's string, 
And the notes that blackbirds sing ; 
Brighter than the dewdrops rare 
Is the maiden wondrous fair: 
Like the silver swans at play 
Is her neck, as bright as day ! 
Woe is me, that e'er my sight 
Dwelt on charms so deadly bright t 



PASTHEEN FIN. 



IRISH RUSTIC SONG. 



Oh, my fair Pastheen is my heart's delight, 
Her gay heart laughs in her blue eye bright ; 
Like the apple blossom her bosom white, 
And her neck like the swan's on a March morn 
bright! 
Then, Oro, come with me ! come with me ! 

come 8 with me ! 
Oro, come with me ! brown girl, sweet ! 
And, oh ! I would go through snow and sleet, 
If you would come with me, brown girl, 
sweet ! 

Love of my heart, my fair Pastheen ! 
Her cheeks are red as the rose's sheen, 
But my lips have tasted no more, I ween, 
Than the glass I drank to the health of my queen ! 
Then, Oro, come with me ! come with me ! 

come with me ! 
Oro, come with me! brown girl, sweet! 
And, oh ! I would go through snow and 

sleet, 
If you would come with me, brown girl, 
sweet ! 

Were I in the town, where's mirth and glee, 
Or 'twixt two barrels of barley bree, 
With my fair Pastheen upon my knee, 
'Tis I would drink to her pleasantly ! 

Then, Oro, come with me! come with me! 
come with me ! 

Oro, come with me ! brown girl, sweet! 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



And, oh ! I would go through snow and 

sleet, 
If you would come with me, brown girl, 



Nine nights I lay in longing and pain, 
Betwixt two bushes, beneath the rain, 
Thinking to see yon, love, once again ; 
But whistle and call were all in vain ! 

Then, Oro, come with me ! come with me 1 

come with me ! 
Oro, come with me ! brown girl, sweet! 
And, oh ! I would go through snow and 

sleet, 
If you would come with me, brown girl, 
sweet ! 

I'll leave my people, both friend and foe ; 
From all the girls in the world I'll go; 
But from you, sweetheart, oh, never ! oh, no ! 
Till I lie in the coffin, stretch'd cold and low ! 
Then, Oro, come with me ! come with me 1 

come with me ! 
Oro, come with me ! brown girl, sweet ! 
And, oh ! I would go through snow and 

sleet, 
If you would come with me, brown girl, 
sweet ! 



MOLLY ASTORE. 



Oh, Mary dear, oh, Mary fair, 

Oh, branch of generous stem, 
White blossom of the banks of Nair, 

Though lilies grow on them ! 
Tou'vc left me sick at heart for love, 

So faint I cannot see, 
The candle swims the board above, — 

I'm drunk for love of thee! 
Oh, stately stem of maiden pride, 

My woe it is, and pain, 
That I, thus sever'd from thy side, 

The long night must remain! 

Through all the towns of Innisfail 
I've wander'd far and wide; 

But from Downpatrick to Kinsale, 
From Carlow to Kilbride, 



'Mong lords and dames of high degree, 

Where'er my feet have gone, 
My Mary, one to equal thee 

I've never look'd upon ; 
I live in darkness and in doubt 

Whene'er my love's away, 
But, were the blessed sun put out, 

Her shadow would make day 1 

Tis she indeed, young bud of Uiss, 

And gentle as she's fair, 
Though lily-white her bosom is, 

And sunny-bright her hair, 
And dewy-azure her blue eye, 

And rosy-red her cheek, — 
Yet brighter she in modesty, 

More beautifully meek ! 
The world's wise men from north to sooth 

Can never cure my pain ; 
But one kiss from her honey mouth 

Would make me whole again ! 



CASHEL OF MUNSTER. . 

IRISH RUSTIC BALLAD. 

I'd wed you without herds, without money, or 
rich array, 

And I'd wed you on a dewy morning at day- 
dawn gray ; 

My bitter woe it is, love, that we are not far 
away 

In Cashel town, though the bare deal board were 
our marriage-bed this day ! 

Oh, fair maid, remember the green hill side, 
Remember how I hunted about the valleys wide ; 
Time now has worn me ; my locks are turn'd to 

gray, 
The year is scarce and I am poor, but send me 

not, love, away ! 

Oh, deem not my blood is of base strain, my 
girl. 

Oh, deem not my birth was as the birth of the 

churl ; 
Marry me, and prove me, and say soon you will,. 
That noble blood is written on my right side 

still! 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



My purse holds uo red gold, no coin of the silver 

white, 
No herds are mine to drive through the long 

twilight ! 
But the pretty girl that would take me, all bare 

though I be and lone, 
Oh, I'd take her with me kindly to the county 

Tyrone. 

Oh, my girl, I can see 'tis in trouble you are, 

And, oh, my girl, I see 'tis your people's reproach 
you bear : 

"I am a girl in trouble for his sake with whom 
I fly, 

And, oh, may no other maiden know such re- 
proach as I !" 



THE COOLUN. 

IRISH RUSTIC BALLAD. 

Oh, had you seen the Coolun, 

Walking down by the cuckoo's street, 
With the dew of the meadow shining 

On her milk-white twinkling feet! 
My love she is, and my eoleen oge, 

And she dwells in Bal'nagar; 
And she bears the palm of beauty bright 

From the fairest that in Erin are. 

In Bal'nagar is the Coolun, 

Like the berry on the bough her cheek ; 
Bright beauty dwells forever 

On her fair neck and ringlets sleek : 
Oh, sweeter is her mouth's soft music 

Than the lark or thrush at dawn, 
Or the blackbird in the greenwood singing 

Farewell to the setting sun. 

Rise up, my boy ! make ready 

My horse, for I forth would ride, 
To follow the modest damsel, 

Where she walks on the green hill side : 
For, ever since our youth were we plighted, 

In faith, troth, and wedlock true — 
She is sweeter to me nine times over, 

Than organ or cuckoo ! 

For, ever since my childhood 

I loved the fair and darling child ; 



But our people came betweeu us, 

And with lucre our pure love defiled : 

Oh, wy woe it is, aud my bitter pain, 
And I weep it night and day, 

That the eoleen bawn of my early love 
Is torn from my heart away. 

Sweetheart and faithful treasure, 

Be constant still, and trne ; 
Nor for want of herds and houses 

Leave one who would ne'er leave you : 
I'll pledge you the blessed Bible, 

Without and eke within, 
That the faithful God will provide for us. 

Without thanks to kith or kin. 

Ob, love, do you remember 

When we lay all night alone 
Beneath the ash in the winter-storm, 

When the oak wood round did groan f 
No shelter then from the blast had we, 

The bitter blast or sleet, 
But your gown to wrap about our heads, 

And my coat round our feet. 



TOUGHALL HARBOR. 

IRISH RUSTIC BALLAD. 

One Sunday morning, into Youghall walking, 

I met a maiden upon the way ; 
Her little mouth sweet as fairy music, 

Her soft cheeks blushing like dawn of day ! 
I laid a bold hand upon her bosom, 

And ask'd a kiss : but she answer'd, " No : 
Fair sir, be gentle ; do not tear my mantle ; 

Tis none in Erin my grief can know. 

"'Tis but a little hour since I left Youghall, 

And my love forbade me to return ; 
And now my weary way I wander 

Into Cappoquin, a poor girl forlorn: 
Then do not tempt me ; for, alas ! I dread them 

Who with tempting proffers teach girls to 
roam, 
Who'd first deceive us, then faithless leave us, 

And send us shame-faced and barefoot home," 

" My heart and hand here ! I mean you marriage i 
I have loved like you and known love's pain ; 

And if you turu back now to Youghall Harbor, 
You ne'er shall want house or home again : 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



You shall have a lace cap like any lady, 

Cloak and capuchin, too, to keep you warm, 

And if God please, maybe, a little baby, 
By and by to nestle within your arm." 



CEAN DUBH DEELISH.' 

Pct your head, darling, darling, darling, 

Your darling bli>"t head my heart above ; 
Oh, mouth of honey, with the thyme for fra- 
grance, 
Who, with heart in breast, could deny you 
love' 
Oh, many and many a young girl for me is 
pining, 
Letting her locks of gold to the cold wind 
free, 
For me, the foremost of our gay young fellows ; 
But I'd leave a hundred, pure love, for thee ! 
Then put your head, darling, darling, darling, 
Your darling black head my heart above ; 
Oh, mouth of honey, with the thyme for fra- 
grance, 
Who, with heart in breast, could deny you 
love? 



BOATMAN'S HYMN. 

Bark that bear me through foam and squall, 

You in the storm are my castle wall : 

Though the sea should redden from bottom to 

top, 
From tiller to mast she takes no drop ; 
On the tide-top, the tide-top, 

Wherry aroon, my land and store ! • 
On the tide-top, the tide-top, 
She is the boat can sail go leor? 

She dresses herself, and goes gliding on, 
Like a dame in her robes of the Indian lawn ; 
For God has bless'd her, gunnel and whale, 
And oh ! if you saw her stretch out to the gale, 
On the tide-top, the tide-top, &c. 

Whillan,* ahoy ! old heart of stone, 
Stooping so black o'er the beach alone, 



, dear black head 



9 hillan, a rock on the shore i 



Answer me well— on the bursting brine 
Saw you ever a bark like miue ? 

On the tide-top, the tide-top, &c. 

Says Whillan : " Since first I was made of stone, 
I have look'd abroad o'er the beach alone — 
But till to-day, on the bursting brine, 
Saw I never a bark like thine," 

On the tide-top, the tide-top, &c. 

"God of the air !" the seamen shout, 
When they see us tossing the brine about ; 
" Give us the shelter of strand or rock, 
Or through and through us she goes with a 
shock !" 
On the tide-top, the tide-top, 

Wherry aroon, my land and store, 
On the tide-top, the tide-top, 
She is the boat can sail go leor ! 



THE DEAR OLD AIR. 

Misfortune's train may chase our joys, 

But not our love ;' 
And I those pensive looks will prize, 

The smiles of joy above : 
You.r tender looks of love shall still 

Delight and console ; 
Even though your eyes the tear-drops fill 

Beyond your love's control. 

Of troubles past we will not speak, 

Or future woe : 
Nor mark, thus leaning cheek to cheek, 

The stealing tear-drops flow : 
But I'll sing you the dear old Irish air, 

Soothing and low, 
You loved so well when, gay as fair, 

You won me long ago. 



THE LAPFUL OF NUTS. 

Whene'er I see soft hazel eyes 

And nut-brown curls, 
I think of those bright uays I spent 

Arriong the Limerick girls ; 
When up through Gratia woods I went, 

Nutting with thee ; 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



And we pluck'd the glossy clustering fruit 
From many a bending tree. 

Beneath the hazel boughs we sat, 

Thou, love, and I, 
And the gatheHd nuts lay in thy lap, 

Beneath thy downcast eye : 
But little we thought of the store we'd won, 

I, love, or thou ; 
For our hearts were full, and we dare not own 

The love that's spoken now. 

Oh, there's wars for willing hearts in Spain, 

And high Germar.ie! 
And I'll come back, ere long, again, 

With knightly fame and fee: 
And I'll come back, if I ever come back, 

Faithful to thee, 
That sat with thy white lap full of nuts 

Beneath the hazel tree. 



MARY'S WAKING. 



Soft be the sleep, and sweet the dreams, 

And bright be the awaking, 
Of Mary this mild April mom, 

On ray pale vigil breaking : 
May weariness and wakefulness 

And unrepaid endeavor, 
And aching eyes like mine this day, 

Be far from her forever ! 

The quiet of the opening dawn, 

The freshness of the morning, 
Be with her through the cheerful day 

Till peaceful eve returning 
Shall put an end to household cares 

And dutiful employment, 
And bring the hours of genial mirth 

And innocent enjoyment. 

And whether in the virgin choir, 

A joyous sylph, she dances, 
Or o'er the smiling circle sheds 

Her wit's sweet influences ; 
May he by favoring fate assign'd 

Her partner or companion, 
Be one that with an angel's mind 

Is fit to hold communion. 



Ah me ! the wish is hard to frame ! 

But should some youth, more favor'd, 
Achieve the happiness which I 

Have fruitlessly endeavor'd, 
God send them love and length of days, 

And health and wealth abounding, 
And long around their hearth to hear 

Their children's voices sounding ! 

Be still, be still, rebellious heart ; 

If he have fairly won her, 
To bless their union I am bound 

In duty and in honor : 
But, out alas ! 'tis all in vain ; 

I love her still too dearly 
To pray for blessings which I feel 

So hard to give sincerely. 



HOPELESS LOVE. 



Since hopeless of thy love I go, 
Some little mark of pity show ; 
And only one kind parting look bestow, — 

One parting look of pity mild 

On him, through starless tempest wild, 

Who lonely heuce to-night must go, exiled. 

But even rejected love can warm 
The heart through night and storm : 
And unrelenting though they be, 
Thine eyes beam life on me. 

And I will bear that look benign 

Within this darkly-troubled breast to shine, 

Though never, never can thyself, ah me, be mine f 



THE FAIR HILLS OF IRELAND. 

OLD IRISH SONG. 

A plenteous place is Ireland for hospita 
cheer, 

Uileacan dubh ! 
Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the 
yellow barley ear ; 

Uileacan dubh ! 
There is honey in the trees where her misty vales 
expand, 






rOEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



And her forest paths, in summer, are by falling 

waters fann'd, 
There is dew at high noontide there, and springs 

i' the yellow sand, 
On the fair hills of holy Ireland. 

Curl'd he is and riugleted, and plaited to the 
knee, 

Uileacan dubh Of 

Eaeh captain who comes sailing across the Irish 
sea; 

Uileacan dubh 0! 

And I will make my journey, if life and health 
but stand, 

Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fra- 
grant strand, 

And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth 
and high command, 

For the fair hills of holy Ireland. 

Large and profitable are the stacks upon the 

ground, 

Uileacan dubh 0! 
The butter and the cream do wondrously abound, 

Uileacan dubh ! 
Tho rjres«es on the water and the sorrels are at 

hand, 
And the cuckoo's calling daily his note of music 

bland, 
And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song i' 

the forests grand, 
On the fair hills of holy Ireland. 



TORNA'S LAMENT FOR CORC AND 
NIALL. 

•rorna, chief doctor and arclibard of Ireland, was the last great 
ird of pagan Ireland. Among the poems which have reached na 
his lament over Core and Niall of the nine hostages, to whom he 
as hound by the tie of fosterage. In its native simplicity, it pro- 
mts a touching picture of mingled affection, devoted loyalty, and 
esolaie bereavement With what natural touches the bard por- 
■Hva the character of the royal youths, and dwells with justifiable 
ride on the honor of his own position— placed between them — 
iall on the right side, the seat of dignity; and Core, to whom 
ride was unknown, on his left, appropriately nearer his heart, 
lie present version of this ancient relic is as nearly literal as pos- 
ble, and expressly maile in deprecation of that spirit of refining 
pon the original by which many of tie poetical translations of the 
u-ds are characterized. 

M'r foster-children were not slack ; 
Core or Neal ne 1 er turn'd his back; 
Neal, of Tara's palace hoar, 
Worthy seed of Owen More; 



Core, of Cashel's pleasant rock, 
Con-cead-caha's' honored stock. 
Joint exploits made Erin theirs — 
Joint exploits of high corrpeers; 
Fierce thev were, and stormy strong ; 
Neal, amid the reeling throng, 
Stood terrific ; nor was Core 
Hindmost in the heavy work. 
Neal Mac Eocliy Vivahain 
Ravaged Albin, hill and plain ; 
While, he fought from Tara far, 
Core disdained unequal war. 
Never saw I man like Neal, 
Making foreign foemen reel ; 
Never saw I mau like Core, 
Swinging at the savage work;' 
Never saw I better twain, 
Search all Erin round again — 
Twain so stout in warlike deeds — 
Twain so mild in peaceful weeds. 

These the foster-children twain 
Of Torna, I who sing the strain; 
These they are, the pious ones, 
My sons, my darling foster-sons ! 
Who duly every day would come 
To glad the old man's lonely home 
Ah, happy days I've spent between 
Old Tara's hall and Cashel-green! 
From Tara down to Cashel ford, 
From Cashel back to Tara's lord. 
When with Neal, his regent, I 
Dealt with princes rrvyally. 
If with Core perchance I were, 
I was his prime counsellor. 

Therefore Neal I ever set 

On my right hand — thus to got 

Judgments grave, and weighty words, 

For the right hand loyal lords ; 

But, ever on my left-hand side, 

Gentle Core, who knew not pride, 

That none other so might part 

His dear body from my heart. 

Gone is generous Core O'Yeon — woe is mel 

Gone is valiant Neal O'Con — woe is me! 



1 Con of the hundred battles. 

3 In the paraphrase of this elegy, by Mr. D'Alton, in the • Mln- 

"Tbe eye of heaven ne'er looked on one 
So God-like in the field as Tara's lord, 
Save him the comrade of his youth alone — 
Brave Core, terrific wielder of the sword." 



POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON. 



Gone the root of Tara's stock— woe is me ! 
Gone the head of Cash el rock — woe is me! 
Broken is my witless brain — 
Neal, the mighty king, is slain! 
Broken is my bruised heart's core — 
Core, the Righ More, is no more ! ' 
Mourns Lea Con, in tribute's chain, 
Lost Mac Eochy Vivahain, 
And her lost Mac Lewy true — 
Mourns Lea Mogha, s ruined toot 



UNA PHELIMY. 

AN ULSTER BALLAD, A. D. 1641. 

"Awaken, Una Phelimy, 

How canst thou slumber so.' 
How canst thou dream so quietly 

Through such a night of woe ? 
Through such a night of woe," he said, 

" How canst thou dreaming lie, 
When the kindred of thy love lie dead, 

And he must fall or fly?" 

She rose and to the casement came; 

"Oh, William dear, speak low; 
For I should bear my brothers' blame 

Did Hugh or Angus know." 
"Did Hugh or Angus, know, Una! 

Ah, little dreamest thou 
On what a bloody errand bent 

Are Hugh and Angus now." 

■•Oh, what has chanced my brothers dear! 

My Willia.ni, tell me true ! 
Our God forbode that what I fear 

Be that they're gone to do !" 
"They're gone on bloody work, Una, 

The worst we feared is done ! 
They've taken to the knife at last, 

The massacre's beguu ! 



i The beautiful definition of the different feollng experienced by 
the toss of each, here conveyed— his reason being affected by tbe 
gTeat nntional loss sustained bytherieath of Niall: wli.'le his henri 
k bruised by the loss of Core, his favorite — is thus expressed in 
Ur. D'Alton's version!:— 

" In Mall's fall my reason felt the shock: 

But, oh. when Core expired, my heart was broken." 

» Loath Cnin, or Con, and Lealh Mojrha— the names of the great 

northern and southern divisions of the island, of which these princes 

were the respective representatives. This territorial division was 

tea, a. d. ISO, »nd 



made in the reign of Conn of the bu 



marked by a groat i 






,,!...,! i 



. Galw 



Dublin. 



"They came upon us while wc slept 

Fast by the sedgy Banu ; 
In darkness to our beds they crept, 

And left me not a mau ! 
Bann rolls ray comrades ever now 

Through all his pools and fords; 
And their hearts' best blood is warm. Una, 

Upon thy brothers' swords ! 

"And mine had borne them company, 

Or the good blade I wore, 
Which ne'er left foe in victory 

Or friend in need before, 
In theirs as in their fellows' hearts 

Also had dimm'd its shine, 
But for these tangling curls, Una, 

And witching eyes of thine ! 

" I've borne the brand of flight for these, 

For these the scornful cries 
Of loud insulting enemies; 

But busk thee, love, and rise, 
For Ireland's now no place for us ; 

'Tis time to take our flight 
When neighbor steals on neighbor thus, 

And stabbers strike by night. 

" And black and bloody the revenge 

For this dark midnight's sake 
The kindred of my murder'd friends 

On thine and thee will take, 
Unless thou rise and fly betimes, 

Unless thou fly with me, 
Sweet Una, from this land of crimes 

To peace beyond the sea. 

" For trustful pillows wait us there, 

And loyal friends beside, 
Where the broad lands of ray father are. 

Upon the banks of Clyde. 
In five days hence a ship will be 

Bound for that happy home ; 
Till then we'll make our sanctuary 

In sea-cave's sparry dome. 
Then busk thee, Uua Phelimy, 

And o'er the waters come !" 
* * * * 

The midnight moon is wading deep, 

The land sends off the gale, 
The boat beneath the sheltering steep 

Hangs on a seaward sail ; 
And, leaning o'er the weather-rail, 

The lovers, hand in hand, 






POEMS OF SAMUEL FERGUSON 



657 



Take their last look of Innisfail — 
"Farewell, doom'd Ireland!" 

" And art thou doomed to discord still f 

And shall thy sons ne'er cease 
To search and struggle for thine ill, 

Ne'er share thy good in peace? 
Already do thy mountains feel 

Avenging Heaven's ire ; 
Hark — hark — this is no thunder peal, 

That was no lightning fire 1" 

It was no fire from heaven he saw, 

For, far from hill and dell, 
O'er Gobbin's brow the mountain flaw 

Bears musket-shot and yell, 
And shouts of brutal glee, that tell 

A foul and fearful tale, 
Thile over blast and breaker swell 

Thin shrink* and woman's waiL 



Now fill they far the upper sky, 

Now down 'mid air they go, 
The frantic scream, the piteous cry, 

The groan of rage and woe ; 
And wilder in their agony 

And shriller still they grow — 
Now cease they, choking suddenly, 

The waves boom on below. 



" A bloody and a black revenge ! 

Oh, Una, bless'd are we 
Who this sore-troubled land cau chang* 

For peace beyond the sea ; 
But for the manly hearts and true 

That Antrim still retain, 
Or be their banner green or blue, 

For all that there remain, 
God grant them quiet freedom too, 

And blithe homes soon again 1" 



POEMS OF JOHN BANIM. 



AILLEEN. 

Tis not for love of gold I go, 

"lis not for love of fame ; 
Though fortune should her smile bestow 

And I may win a name, 

Ailleen, 

And I may win a name. 

And yet it is for gold I go, 

And yet it is for fame, 
That they may deck another brow, 

And bless another name, 

Ailleen, 

And bless another name. 

For this — but this, I go ; for this 

I lose thy love awhile, 
And all the soft and quiet bliss 

Of thy young, faithful smile, 

Ailleen, 

Of thy young, faithful smile. 

I go to brave a world I hate, 

And woo it o'er and o'er, 
And tempt a wave, and try a fate 

Upon a stranger shore, 

Ailleen, 

Upon a stranger shore. 

Oh ! when the bays are all my own, 

I know a heart will care ! 
Oh I when the gold is wooed and won, 

I know a brow shall wear, 

Ailleen, 

I know a brow shall wear ! 

And when, with both return'd again, 

My native land to see, 
I know a smile will meet me there, 

And a hand will welcome me, 
Ailleen, 

And a hand will welcome me. 



SOGGARTH AROON. 

Am I the slave they say, 

Soggarth aroon ?' 
Since you did show the way, 

Soggarth aroon, 
Their slave no more to be, 
While they would work with m 
Ould Ireland's slavery, 

Soggarth aroon ? 

Why not her poorest man, 

Soggarth aroon, 
Try and do all he can, 

Soggarth aroon, 
Her commands to fulfil 
Of his own heart and will, 
Side by side with you still, 

Soggarth aroon ? 

Loyal and brave to you, 

Soggarth aroon, 
Yet be no slave to you, 

Soggarth aroon, — 
Nor, out of fear to you, 
Stand up so near to you — 
Och ! out of fear to youf t 

Soggarth aroon I 

Who in the winter's night, 

Soggarth aroon, 
When the cowld blast did bite 

Soggarth aroon, 
Came to my cabin-door, 
And on my earthen-flure 
Knelt by me, sick and poor, 

Soggarth aroon ? 

Who, on the marriage-day, 

Soggarth aroon, 
Made the poor caoin gay, 

Soggarth aroon — 




^L f&^^ 



tT^^ 



POEMS OF JOHN BANIM. 



659 



And did both laugh and sing, 
Making our hearts to ring, 
At the poor christening, 
Soggarth aroon ? 

Who, as friend only met, 

Soggarth aroon, 
Never did flout me yet, 

Soggarth aroon ? 
And when my hearth was dim, 
Gave, while his eye did brim, 
What I should give to him, 1 

Soggarth aroon ? 

Och ! you, and only you, 

Soggarth aroon ! 
And for this I was true to you, 

Soggarth aroon ; 
In love they'll never shake, 
When for ould Ireland's sake 
We a true part did take, 

Soggarth aroon ! 



THE FETCH. 



{In Ireland, a Fetch is the supernatural facsimile of some 
individual, which comes to insure to its original a happy 
longevity or immediate dissolution. If seen in the morning, 
the one event is predicted ; if in the evening, the other.— 
Autfior't note.'] 

The mother died when the child was born, 

And left me her baby to keep ; 
I rock'd its cradle the night and morn, 

Or, silent, hung o'er it to weep. 

Twas a sickly child through its infancy, 

Its cheeks were so ashy pale ; 
Till it broke from my arms to walk in glee, 

Out in the sharp, fresh gale. 

And then my little girl grew strong, 

And laugh'd the hours away ; 
Or sung me the merry lark's mountain song, 

Which he taught her at break of day. 



1 The Irish Eoman Catholic priest is supported by volun- 
tary contributions from his flock ; but here, (as in many cases,) 
the priest reverses the order of giving, and bestows charity 



When she wreathed her hair in thioket bow 
ers, 

With the hedge-rose and hare-bell blue, 
I call'd her my May, in her crown of flow en 

And her smile so soft and new. 

And the rose, I thought, never shamed her 
cheek, 

But rosy and rosier made it ; 
And her eye of blue did more brightly break, 

Thro' the blue-bell that strove to shade it. 

One evening I left her asleep in her smiles, 
And walk'd through the mountains lonely; 

I was far from my darling, ah ! many long 
miles, 
And I thought of her, and her only ! 

She darken'd my path like a troubled dream, 

In that solitude far and drear ; 
I spoke to my child ! but she did not seem 

To hearken with human ear. 

She only look'd with a dead, dead eye, 
And a wan, wan cheek of sorrow, 

I knew her Fetch ! she was call'd to die, 
And she died upon the morrow. 



THE IRISH MAIDEN'S SONG/ 

You know it, now — it is betray'd 

This moment — in mine eye — 
And in my young cheek's crimson shade, 

And in my whisper'd sigh ; 
You know it, now — yet listen, now — 

Though ne'er was love more true, 
My plight and troth, and virgin vow, 

Still, still I keep from you, 

Ever— 

Ever, until a proof you give 
How oft you've heard me say 

I would not e'en his empress live, 
Who idles life away 



3 In these lines we see again Mr. Banim's inequality and 
want of mastery in lyric composition ; but he is happier than 
usual throughout the last verse, particularly in the two final 
hues, which are exquisitely touching in feeling, and perfect 
in execution 



rOEMS OF JOHN BANIM. 






Without one effort for the land, 
In which my fathers' graves 

Were hollow'd by a despot hand — 

To darkly close on slaves 

Never! 

See ! round yourself the shackles hang, 

Yet come you to Love's bowers, 
That only he may soothe their pang, 

Or hide their links in flowers ; — 
Sut try all things to snap them, first, 

And should all fail, when tried, 
Hie fated chain you cannot burst 

My twining arms shall hide 

Ever! 



THE RECONCILIATION. 

[Thii ballad Is said to have been founded on a fact which 



were made to pnt down faction-lights among 

The old man he knelt at the altar 
His enemy's hand to take, 

And at first his weak voice did falter, 
And his feeble limbs did shake; 



For his only brave boy, his glory, 
Had been stretch'd at the old man'i 
feet, 

A corpse, all so haggard and gory, 
By the hand which he now must greet 

And soon the old man stopp'd speaking 

And rage which had not gone by, 
From under his brows came breaking 

Up into his enemy's eye — 
And now his limbs were not shaking, 

But his clench'd hands his bosom cross'd, 
And he look'd a fierce wish to be taking 

Revenge for the boy he had lost ! 

but the old man he look'd around him, 

And thought of the place he was in, 
And thought of the promise which bound 
him, 

And thought that revenge was sin — 
And then, crying tears, like a woman, 

" Tour hand 1 " he said — " aye hat 
handl 
And I do forgive you, foeman, 

For the sake of our bleeding land I* 



1 




€IEA]BUL]E§ ILJEYER, 



POEMS OF CHARLES JAMES LEVEE. 



BAD LUCK TO THIS MARCHING. 
Am-" Paddy O'Camtt." 

Bad luck to this marching, 

Pipeclaying and starching ; 
How neat one must be to be kill'd by the 
French ! 

I'm sick of parading, 

Through wet and cold wading, 
Or standing all night to be shot in a trench. 

To the tune of a fife 

They dispose of your life, 
You surrender your soul to some illigant 
lilt; 

Now I like " Garryowen" 1 

When I hear it at home, 
But its not half so sweet when you're going 
to be kilt. 

Then, though up late and early 

Our pay comes so rarely, 
The devil a farthing we've ever to spare ; 

They say some disaster 

Befell the paymaster ; 
On my conscience I think that the money's 
not there. 

And, just think, what a blunder, 

They won't let us plunder, 
While the convents invite us to rob them, 
'tis clear ; 

Though there isn't a village 

But cries, " Come and pillage !" 
Yet we leave all the mutton behind for 



Like a sailor that's nigh land, 
I long for that Island 



1 A favorite Irish air, and also a celebrated locality in the 
city of Limerick. 

> A capital line this— the natural comment of a hungry 
eoldier,— Illustrating a fact honorable to the British army in 
the Peninsular war 



Where even the kisses we steal if we please ; 
Where it is no disgrace 
If you don't wash your face, 
And you've nothing to do but to stand at 
your ease. 
With no sergeant to abuse us, 
We fight to amuse us, 
Sure it's better beat Christians than kick % 
baboon ; 
How I'd dance like a fairy 
To see ould Dunleary,' 
And think twice ere I'd leave it to be a 
dragoon ! 



IT'S LITTLE FOR GLORY I CARE. 

It's little for glory I care ; 

Sure ambition is only a fable ; 
I'd as soon be myself as Lord Mayor, 

With lashins of drink on the table. 
I like to lie down in the sun, 

And drame when my faytures is scorchin', 
That when I'm too ould for more fun, 

Why, I'll marry a wife with a fortune. 

And in winter, with bacon and eggs, 

And a place at the turf-fire basking, 
Sip my punch as I roasted my legs, 

Oh ! the devil a more I'd be asking. 
For I haven't a jaynius for work, — 

It was never the gift of the Bradies, — 
But I'd make a most illigant Turk, 

For I'm fond of tobacco and ladies. 



• A landing-place in Dublin Bay— now called Kingstown, to 
commemoration of the visit of George TV., as " Passage," in 
the Cove of Cork, goes by the higher " style and title" of 
" Queenstown," since the visit of Her Majesty Queen Victoria. 
Dunleary, of old, could afford shelter but to a few fishing-boats 
under a small pier. The harbor of Kingstown has anchorage 
within its capacious sweep of masonry for ships of war ; in 
fact it is one of the finest works in the British dominions. 



POEMS OF CHARLES JAMES LEVER. 



LARRY M'HALE. 

Oh ! Larry M'Hale he had little to fear, 
And never could want when the crops 
didn't fail ; 
He'd a house and demesne and eight hundred 
a year, 
And the heart for to spend it, had Larry 
M'Hale 1 

The soul of a party, — the life of a feast, 
And an illigant song he could sing, I'll be 
bail; 
He would ride with the rector, and drink 
with the priest, 
Ohl the broth of a boy was old Larry 
M'Hale. 

It's little he cared for the judge or recorder, 1 
His house was as big and as strong as a 
jail; 
With a cruel four-pounder, he kept all in 
great order, 
He'd murder the country, would Larry 
M'Hale. 

He'd a blunderbuss too ; of horse-pistols a 
pair; 

But his favorite weapon was always a flail : 
I wish you could see how he'd empty a fair, 

For he handled it nately, did Larry M'Hale. 



• I forget the name of the quaint old chronicler, who, speak- 
ing of the unsettled state of Ireland, writes, " They say the 
King's writ runneth not here, but to that I say nay: the 
Kin g's writ doth runne, — but it runneth awaye." 

Once upon a time it was nearly as much as a bailiff's life 
was worth to cross the Shannon westward with a writ. If he 
escaped with his life, he was sure to get rough treatment any- 
how. One fine morning, for example, a bailiff returned to the 
eolicitor who had sent him into Galway with the king's parch- 
ment, and his aspect declared discomfiture : he looked singu- 
larly bilious, moreover. " I see," said the attorney, " yon did 
not serve it." 

"No, faith." 

" Then you will return it, with an affidavit that—" 

" I can't return it," said the bailiff. 

" Why not f" 

" They cotch me and made me ate it." 

" Is it eat the parchment f" 

"Every scrap of it." 

"And what did you do with the sealf" 

" They made me ate that too, the villains !" 

Let it not be imagined, however, that we had all the fan to 
ourselves in Ireland, or that we can even claim originality in 
our boluses for bailiffs ; for it is recorded that a certain 
" Roger Lord Clifford, who died 1327, was so obstinate and 
eareleBS of the king's displeasure, as that he cauBed a pur- 
suivant that served a writ upon him in the Baron's chamber, 
there to eat and swallow down part of the wax that the said 
writ was sealed with, as it were in contempt of the said 
king."— Memoir of the Countess of Petnbrolce, MS. 



His ancestors were kings before Moses was 
born, 
His mother descended from great Grana 
Uaile; 
He laugh'd all the Blakes and the Frenches 
to scorn : 
They were mushrooms compared to old 
Larry M'Hale. 

He sat down every day to a beautiful dinner, 

With cousins and uncles enough for a tail ; 

And, though loaded with debt, oh ! the devil 

a thinner 

Could law or the sheriff make Larry 

M'Hale. 

With a larder supplied, and a cellar well- 
stored, 
None lived half so well, from Fair-Head 
to Kinsale, 
And he piously said, " I've a plentiful board, 
And the Lord he is good to old Larry 
M'Hale." 

So fill up your glass, and a high bumper give 

him, 

It's little we'd care for the tithes or repale ; 

For ould Erin would be a fine country to 

live in, 

If we only had plenty, like Larry M'Hale, 



MARY DRAPER. 

Don't talk to me of London dames, 
Nor rave about your foreign flames, 
That never lived — except in drames, 

Nor shone, except on paper : 
I'll sing you 'bout a girl I knew, 
Who lived in Ballywhackmacrew, 
And, let me tell you, mighty few 

Could equal Mary Draper. 

Her cheeks were red, her eyes were blue, 
Her hair was brown of deepest hue, 
Her foot was small and neat to view, 

Her waist was slight and taper ; 
Her voice was music to your ear, 
A lovely brogue, so rich and clear, 



POEMS OF CHARLES JAMES LEVER. 



663 



Oh, the like I ne'er again shall hear 
As from sweet Mary Draper. 

She'd ride a wall, she'd drive a team, 
Or with a fly she'd whip a stream, 
Or may-be sing you " Rousseau's 

For nothing could escape her ; 
Fve seen her, too — upon my word — 
At sixty yards bring down her bird — 
Oh ! she charm'd all the Forty-third 1 

Did lovely Mary Draper. 



And, at the spring assizes ball, 
The junior bar would, one and all, 
For all her favorite dances call, 

And Harry Deane 1 would caper; 
Lord Clare' would then forget his lore ; 
King's counsel, voting law a bore, 
Were proud to figure on the floor 

For love of Mary Draper. 

The parson, priest, sub-sheriff too, 
Were all her slaves, and so would you, 
If you had only but one view 

Of such a face or shape, or 
Her pretty ankles — but, alone, 
It's only west of old Athlone 
Such girls were found — and now they're 
gone — 

So, here's to Mary Draper 1 



NOW CAN'T YOU BE AISY? 

An«-".4ttUft, Katty, now canH yw be ahyr 

Oh 1 what stories I'll tell when my sodger- 
ing's o'er, 

And the gallant Fourteenth is disbanded f 
Not a drill nor parade will I hear of no more, 

When safely in Ireland landed. 



> Harry Deane Grady, a distinguished lawyer on the Western 
Circuit. 

* Lord Chancellor of Ireland, celebrated for his hatred of 
Curran. He carried this feeling to the unjust and undignified 
length of always treating him with disrespect in Court, to the 
great injury of Curran's practice. On one occasion, when 
that eminent man was addressing him, Lord Clare turned to 
a pet dog beside him on the bench, and gave all the attention 
to his canine favorite which he should have bestowed on the 
counsel. Curran suddenly stopped. Lord Clare observing 
this, said, "Ton may go on, Mr. Curran— I'm listening to 
yon." " I beg pardon for my mistake, my Lord," replied 
Outrun ; "I stopped, my Lord, because I thought your Lord- 



With the blood that I spilt — the Frenchmen 
I kilt, 
I'll drive all the girls half crazy ; 
And some 'cute one will cry, with a wink of 
her eye, 
" Mr. Free, now — why can't you be aisy ?" 

I'll tell how we routed the squadrons in fight, 

And destroy'd them all at " Talavera," 
And then I'll just add how we finish'd the 
night, 

In learning to dance the " Bolera ;" 
How by the moonshine we drank raal wine, 

And rose next day fresh as a daisy ; 
Then some one will cry, with a look mighty 
sly, 

" Arrah, Mickey — now can't you be aisy ?" 

I'll tell how the nights with Sir Arthur we 
spent, 

Around a big fire in the air too, 
Or may-be enjoying ourselves in a tent, 

Exactly like Donnybrook fair too ; 
How he'd call out to me — " Pass the wine, 
Mr. Free, 

For you're a man never is lazy !" 
Then some one will cry, with a wink of her eye, 

" Arrah, Mickey dear — can't you be aisy ?" 

I'll tell, too, the long years in fighting we 

pass'd, 

Till Mounseer ask'd Bony to lead him. 

And Sir Arthur, grown tired of glory at last, 

Begg'd of one Mickey Free to succeed him. 

But, " acushla," says I, " the truth is, I'm shy 1 

There's a lady in Ballynacrazy ! 
And I swore on the book — " she gave me a 
look, 
And cried, "Mickey — now can't you be 
aisy?" 



OH! ONCE WE WERE DLLIGANT 
PEOPLE. 

Oh ! once we were illigant people, 
Though we now live in cabins of mud ; 

And the land that ye see from the steeple 
Belong'd to us all from the flood. 

My father was then king of Connaught, 
My grandaunt viceroy of Tralee ; 



664 



POEMS OF CHARLES JAMES LEVER. 



But the Sassenach came, and, signs on it ! 
The divil an acre have we. 

The least of us then were all earls, 

And jewels we wore without name ; 
We drank punch out of rubies and pearls — 

Mr. Petrie," can tell you the same. 
But, except some turf-mould and potatoes, 

There's nothing our own we can call : 
And the English — bad luck to them ! — hate 
us, 

Because we've more fun than them all 1* 

My grandaunt was niece to St. Kevin, 

That's the reason my name's Mickey Free 1 
Priest's nieces — but sure he's in heaven, 

And his failins is nothin' to me. 
And we still might get on without doctors, 

If they'd let the ould island alone ; 
And if purplemen, priests, and tithe-proctors 

"Were cramm'd down the great gun of 
Athlone. 



POTTEEN, GOOD LUCK TO YE, 
DEAR. 

Av I was a monarch in state, 

Like Romulus or Julius Caysar, 
With the best of fine victuals to eat, 

And drink like great Nebuchadnezzar, 
A rasher of bacon I'd have, 

And potatoes the finest was seen, sir ; 
And for drink, it's no claret I'd crave, 

But a keg of old Mullen's potteen, sir. 
With the smell of the smoke on it still. 

They talk of the Romans of ould, 

Whom they say in their own times was 

frisky : 



1 Now Dr. Petrie. The Bong was written bj my esteemed 
friend, the anthor, before my other esteemed friend, the dis- 
tinguished antiquary alluded to, had the academic honor of 
LL.D. appended to his name— a name which has laid the 
alphabet under many more contributions of the same sort. 

J This is a capital idea, and most characteristic of the queer 
fellow that utters it, Mister "Mickey Free,"* to whose ac- 
quaintance I would recommend the reader — (/"there be any who 
does not know him already. For my own part, I will add a 
wish that all the rivalries between the sister isles, for the 
future, may be in the pursuit of happiness — in obtaining 
what f hall give cause to laugh the most 

• Tide " Charles O'Mallsr " 



But trust me, to keep out the cowld, 
The Romans* at home here like whisky. 

Sure it warms both the head and the heart, 
It's the soul of all reaiin' and writin' ; 

It teaches both science and art, 

And disposes for love or for fightin'. 
Oh, potteen, good luck to ye, dear. 



THE BrVOUAC. 



Now that we've pledged each eye of 

blue, 
And every maiden fair and true, 
And our green island home — to yon 

The ocean's wave adorning, 
Let's give one hip, hip, hip, hurra ! 
And drink e'en to the coming day, 

When squadron square 

We'll all be there ! 
To meet the French in the morning. 

May his bright laurels never fade, 
Who leads our fighting fifth brigade, 
Those lads so true in heart and blade, 

And famed for danger scorning ; 
So join me in one hip, hurra ! 
And drink e'en to the coming day, 

When squadron square 

We'll all be there ! 
To meet the French in the morning. 

And when with years and honors crown'd, 
Ton sit some homeward hearth around, 
And hear no more the stirring sound 
That spoke the trumpet's warning ; 
Ton fill, and drink, one hip, hurra ! 
And pledge the memory of the day, 

When squadron square 

They all were there 
To meet the French in the morning. 



» An abbreviation of Roman Catholic. The Irish peasant 
used the word "Eoman" in contradistinction to that of 
"Protestant." An Hibernian, in a religious wrangle with a 
Scotchman, said., " Ah, don't bother me any more, man I I'll 
prove to ye mine is the raal ould religion by one wora. St. 
Paul wrote an epistle to The Romans ;— but he never wrote ona 
to The Protestants. Answer me that /" 






POEMS OF CHARLES JAMES LEVER. 



THE GIRLS OF THE WEST. 

Am-" Thady ye dander." 

You may talk, if you please, 
Of the brown Portuguese, 

But, wherever you roam, wherever you roam, 
Tou nothing will meet 
Half so lovely or sweet 

Ab the girls at home, the girls at home. 
Their eyes are not sloes, 
Nor so long is their nose, 

But between me and you, between me and 
you, 
They are just as alarming, 
And ten times more charming, 

With hazel and blue, with hazel and blue. 

They don't ogle a man 

O'er the top of their fan 
Till his heart's in a flame, his heart's in a 
flame; 

But though bashful and shy, 

They've a look in their eye, 
That just comes to the same, just comes to 
the same. 

No mantillas they sport, 

But a petticoat short 
Shows an ankle the best, an ankle the best, 

And a leg — but, oh murther ! 

I dare not go further, 
So here's to the West, so here's to the West. 



THE IRISH DRAGOON. 

Am—" Sprig qf SldUelah." 

Oh, love is the soul of an Irish dragoon, 
In battle, in bivouac, or in a saloon — 
From the .tip of his spur to his bright 

sabertasche. 
With his soldierly gait and his bearing so 

high, 
His gay laughing look and his light speaking 

eye, 
He frowns at his rival, he ogles his wench, 
He springs on his saddle and chasses the 

French — 
With his jingling spur and his bright 

sabertasche. 



His spirits are high and he little knows 

care, 
Whether sipping his claret or charging a 

square — 
With his jingling spur and his bright 

sabertasche. 
As ready to sing or to skirmish he's found, 
To take off his wine or to take up his ground : 
When the bugle may call him, how little he 

fears 
To charge forth in column and beat the 

Mounseers — 
With his jingling spur and his bright 

sabertasche. 

When the battle is over he gayly rides back 

To cheer every soul in the night bivouac — 
With his jingling spur and his bright 
sabertasche. 

Oh ! there you may see him in full glory 
crown'd, 

And he sits 'mid his friends on the hardly- 
won ground, 

And hear with what feeling the toast he will 
give, 

As he drinks to the land where all Irishmen 
live — 
With his jingling spur and his bright 



THE MAN FOR GAL WAY. 

To drink a toast, 
A proctor roast, 

Or bailiff, as the case is ; 
To kiss your wife, 
Or take your life 
At ten or fifteen paces ; 
To keep game cocks, to hunt the fox, 

To drink in punch the Solway, 
With debts galore, but fun far more ; 
Oh, that's " the man for Galway." 

With debts, &c 

The King of Oude 
Is mighty proud, 

And so were onest the Caysars; 



POEMS OF CHARLES JAMES LEVER. 



But ould Giles Eyre 
Would make them stare, 
Av he had them with the Blazers.' 
To the divil I fling ould Runjeet Sing, 

He's only a prince in a small way, 
And knows nothing at all of a six-foot wall ; 
Oh, he'd never "do for Galway." 

With debts, &o. 

Ye think the Blakes 
Are no " great shakes ;" 

They're all his blood relations; 
And the Bodkins sneeze 
At the grim Chinese, 

For they come from the Phenaycians. 

So fill to the brim, and here's to him 

Who'd drink in punch the Sol way; 

With debts galore, but fun far more ; 

Oh ! that's " the man for Galway. " 

With debts, &c. 



THE POPE HE LEADS A HAPPY 
LIFE.' 

(From the German.) 

The Pope he leads a happy life, 
He knows no cares nor marriage strife ; 
He drinks the best of Rhenish wine — ■ 
I would the Pope's gay lot were mine. 

But yet not happy is his life — 
He loves no maid or wedded wife, 
Nor child hath he to cheer his hope — 
I would not wish to be the Pope. 



1 This generally implies the arbitrament of the " duello" 
blazers being a figurative term for pistols ; hut in the present 
case, if I remember rightly, the Blazers allude to a very break- 
neck pack of hounds, so called. 

» Whether this is a close or a free translation, I know 
not ; hut I do know it was originally written for, and sung at, 
*he festive meetings of the " Burschen Club" of Dublin, by 
the author ; and I cannot name that Club without many a re- 
miniscence of bright evenings, and of bright friends that 
made them such. Brightest among them all was my early and 
valued friend Charles Lever— by title " King" of the Burschen- 
shaft, while my humbler self was honored with the title of 
their "Minstrel," they having recognized in me some quali- 
ties which the world was afterward good enough to acknowl- 
edge. Many, indeed most of the men of that Club, have 
since become distinguished ; and what songs were written 
for occasions by all of them I What admirable fooling of the 
highest class was there I Id the words of Hamlet, we fooled 
each other to the top of our bent ; but over all the wildest 
mirth there was a presiding good taste I never once saw vio- 
lated. A distinguished old barrister, who had known much 



The Sultan better pleases me, 

He leads a life of jollity, 

Has wives as many as he will — 

I would the Sultan's throne then filL 



But yet he's not a happy man — 
He must obey the Alcoran : 
And dares not taste one drop of 
I would not that his lot were mine. 



So here I take my lowly stand, 
I'll drink my own, my native land ; 
I'll kiss my maiden's lips divine, 
And drink the best of Rhenish wine. 

And when my maiden kisses me 
I'll fancy I the Sultan be ; 
And when my cheering glass I tope, 
I'll fancy then I am the Pope. 



THE PICKETS ARE FAST RETREAT- 
ING, BOYS. 

Am—" The Young May Moon" 

The pickets are fast retreating, boys, 
The last tattoo is beating, boys ; 

So let every man 

Finish his can, 
And drink to our next merry meeting, 
boys! 

The colonel so gayly prancing, boys, 

Has a wonderful trick of advancing, boys; 

When he sings out so large, 

"Fix bayonets and charge !" 

He sets all the Frenchmen a-dancing, boys ! 



of the former bright days of Dublin, was our guest on one 
occasion, and he said that he never had witnessed anything 
like our festive board, since the famous "Monks of the 
Screw." Oh 1 merry times of the Burschenehafi . how often 1 
recall you !— and yet there is sometimes a dash of sadness is 
the recollection. Too truly says the song — 

" The walks where we've roam'd without tiring, 

The songs that together we've sung. 
The jeBt, to whose merry inspiring 

Our mingling of laughter hath rung ; 
Oh, trifles like these become precious, 

Embalm'd in the memory of years ; 
The smiles of the past, so remember'd. 

How often they waken our tears I" 



POEMS OF CHARLES JAMES LEVER. 



Let Monnseer look ever so big, my boys, 


Let them ogle and sigh, 


Who cares for fighting a fig, my boys ? 


They could ne'er catch her eye, 


When we play " Garryowen" 


So bashful the Widow Malone, 


He'd rather go home, 


Ohone ! 


For somehow he's no taste for a jig, my boys. 


So bashful the Widow Malone. 




Till one Mister O'Brien, from Clare,— 


~~ "" ~ ~ 


How quare I 




It's little for blushing they care 


WIDOW MALONE. 


Down there, 




Put his arm round her waist — 


Dn» you hear of the Widow Malone, 


Gave ten kisses at laste — 


Ohone ! 


"Oh," say 8 he, "you're my Molly Malone, 


Who lived in the town of Athlone ? 


My own !" 


Ohone ! 


" Oh," says he, " you're my Molly Malone.' 


Oh, she melted the hearts 




Of the swains in them parts, 


And the widow they all thought so shy, 


So lovely the Widow Malone, 


My eye ! 


Ohone ! 


Ne'er thought of a simper or sigh, 


So lovely the Widow Malone. 


For why ? 




But, " Lucius," says she, 


Of lovers she had a full score, 


" Since you've now made so free, 


Or more, 


You may marry your Mary Malone, 


And fortunes they all had galore, 


Ohone 1 


In store ; 


You may marry your Mary Malone." 


From the minister down 




To the clerk of the crown, 


There's a moral contained in my song, 


All were courting the Widow Malone, 


Not wrong, 


Ohone 1 


And one comfort, it's not very long, 


All were courting the Widow Malone. 


But strong, — 




If for widows you die, 


But bo modest was Mistress Malone, 


Learn to kiss, not to sigh, 


'Twas known, 


For they're all like sweet Mistress Malone, 


That no one conld see her alone, 


Ohone ! 


Ohone ! 


Oh, they're all like sweet Mistress Malone. 



POEMS OF JOHN STERLING. 



THE MARINERS. 

Raise we the yard, ply the oar, 

The breeze is calling us swift away; 

The waters are breaking in foam on the 
shore; 
Our boat no more can stay, can stay. 

When the blast flies fast in the clouds on high, 
And billows are roaring loud below, 

The boatman's song, in the stormy sky, 
Still dares the gale to blow, to blow. 

The timber that frames his faithful boat, 

Was dandled in storms on the mountain 

peaks; [float, 

And in storms, with bounding keel, 'twill 

And laugh when the sea-fiend shrieks, 

and shrieks. 

And then on the calm and glistening nights, 
We have tales of wonder, and joy, and fear, 

The deeds of the powerful ocean sprites, 
With our hearts we cheer, we cheer. 

For often the dauntless mariner knows 
That he must sink to the land beneath, 

Where the diamond on trees of coral grows, 
In emerald halls of Death, of Death. 

Onward we sweep through smooth and storm; 

We are voyagers all in shine or gloom; 
And the dreamer who skulks by his chim- 
ney warm. 

Drifts in his sleep to doom, to doom. 



THE DREAMER ON THE CLIFF. 

OiTOE more, thou darkly rolling main, 
I bid thy lonely strength adieu; 

And sorrowing leave thee once again, 
Familiar long, yet ever new ! 



And while, thou changeless, boundless sea, 

I quit thy solitary shore, 
I sigh to turn away from thee, 

And think I ne'er may greet thee more. 

Thy many voices which are one, 

The varying garbs that robe thy might, 

Thy dazzling hues at set of sun, 
Thy deeper loveliness by night; 

The shades that flit with every breeze 
Along thy hoar and aged brow, — 

What has the universe like these ? 
Or what so strong, so fair as thou ? 

And when yon radiant friend of earth 
Has bridged the waters with her rays, 

Pure as those beams of heavenly birth, 
That round a seraph's footsteps blaze — 

While lightest clouds at times o'ercast 
The splendor gushing from the spheres, 

Like softening thoughts of sorrow past, 
That fill the eyes of joy with tears; 

The soul, methinks, in hours like these. 
Might pant to flee its earthly doom, 

And freed from dust to mount the breeze, 
An eagle soaring from the tomb. 

Or mix'd in stainless air, to roam 

Where'er thy billows know the wind, — 

To make all climes my spirit's home, 
And leave the woes of all behind. 

Or wandering into worlds that beam 
Like lamps of hope to human eyes, 

Wake 'mid delights we now but dream, 
And breathe the rapture of the skies. 

But vain the thought; my feet are bound 
To this dim planet, -^-clay to clay, — 

Condemn'd to tread one thorny round, 
And chain with links that ne'er decay. 



POEMS OF JOHN STERLING. 



Tet while thy ceaseless current flows, 
Thou mighty main, and shrinks again, 

Methinks thy rolling floods disclose 
A refuge safe, at least from men. 

Within thy gently heaving breast, 
That hides no passions dark and wild, 

My weary soul might sink to rest, 
As in its mother's arms a child ; 

Forget the world's eternal jars, 

In murmurous caverns cool and dim, 

And long, o'ertoiled with angry wars, 
Hear but thy billow's distant hymn ! 



THE DEAREST. 

Oh that from far-away mountains, 

Over the restless waves, 
Where bubble enchanted fountains, 

Rising from jewell'd caves, 
I could call a fairy bird, 
Who, whenever thy voice was heard, 

Should come to thee, dearest ! 

He should have violet pinions, 

And a beak of silver white, 
And should bring from the sun's dominions 

Eyes that would give thee light. 
Thou shouldst see that he was born 
In a land of gold and morn, 

To be thy servant, dearest I 



Oft would he drop on thy 1 

A pearl or a diamond stone, 
And would yield to thy light caresses 

Blossoms in Eden grown. 
Round thy path his wings would shower 
Now a gem and now a flower, 

And dewy odors, dearest ! 

He should fetch from bis eastern island 
The songs that the Peris sing, 

And when evening is clear and silent, 
Spells to thy ear would bring, 

And with his mysterious strain 

Would entrance thy weary brain ;— 
Love's own music, dearest ! 



No Phoenix, alas ! will hover, 
Sent from the morning star ; 

And thou must take of thy lover 
A gift not brought so far : 

Wanting bird, and gem, and song, 

Ah 1 receive and treasure long 
A heart that loves thee, dearest ! 



LAMENT FOR DAEDALUS. 



[The subject of this poem was a celebrated sculptor ol 
Greece, who lived, as we are told, three generations before 
the Trojan war. Mankind is indebted to him, it appears, for 
the discovery of several of the mechanical powers. Dsedala* 
was the most ingenious artist of his time, having made statnei 
to which he communicated the power of motion, like ani- 
mated beings. They were of two kinds, one sort having a 
spring which stopped them when one pleased ; while the 
others, having no such contrivance, went along to the end of 
their line, and could not be stopped. Plato and Socrates used 
these different statues in illustration of some of their theories. 
With regard to opinion, they taught that so far as it was hu- 
man, it was founded only on probabilities ; but that when 
God enlightened men. that which was opinion before, now 
became science. They compared opinion to those statues 
which could not be stepped in consequence of its instability 
and constant change ; but when it is restrained and fixed by 
reasoning drawn from sources which Divine Light discover* 
to us, then opinion becomes science, like those statues of 
Daedalus which had the governing spring added to them.— 
This lament is taken from an unassuming little volume of 
" Poems," published by our author in 1840, and contains some 
genuine poetry. Most of the pieces appeared in MackiooocP$ 
Magazine, under the signature of " Archreus."] 

Wail for Daedalus, all that is fairest 1 
All that is tuneful in air or wave 1 

Shapes wliose beauty is truest and rarest, 
Haunt with your lamps and spells his 
grave ! 



Statues, bend your heads in sorrow, 

Te that glance 'mid ruins old, 
That know not a past, nor expect a morrow 

On many a moonlight Grecian wold ! 

By sculptured cave and darken'd river, 
Thee, Daedalus, oft the nymphs recall ; 

The leaves with a sound of winter quiver, 
Murmur thy name, and withering falL 

Tet are thy visions in soul the grandest 
Of all that crowd on the tear-dimm'd eye, 

Though, Daedalus, thou no more commandest 
New stars to that ever-widening sky. 



€70 



POEMS OF JOHN STERLING. 



Ever thy phantoms arise before us, 
Our loftier brothers, but one in blood ; 

By bed and table they lord it o'er us 

"With looks of beauty and words of good. 

They tell us and show us of man victorious 
O'er all that's aimless, blind, and base ; 

Their presence has made our nature glorious, 
And given our night an illumined face. 

Thy toil has won them a godlike quiet ; 

Thou hast wrought their path to a lovely 
sphere ; 
Their eyes to calm rebuke our riot. 

And shape us a home of refuge here. 

For Daedalus breathed in them his spirit; 

In them their sire his beauty sees ; 
We too, a younger brood, inherit 

The gifts and blessings bestow'd on these. 

But, ah ! their wise and bounteous seeming 
Recalls the more that the sage is gone ; 

Weeping we wake from deceitful dreaming, 
And find our voiceless chamber lone. 



Daedalus, thou from the twilight fleest, 
Which thou with visions hast made so 
bright ; 

And when no more those shapes thou seest, 
Wanting thine eye they lose their light. 

Ev'n in the noblest of man's creations, 
Those fresh worlds round those old of 
ours, 

When the seer is gone, the orphan'd nations 
Know but the tombs of perish'd Powers. 

Wail for Daedalus, Earth and Ocean ! 

Stars and Sun, lament for him ! 
Ages, quake in strange commotion ! 

All ye realms of life, be dim ! 

Wail for Daedalus, awful voices, 

From earth's deep centre mankind appal ; 
Seldom ye sound, and then Death rejoices, 

For he knows that then the mightiest 
falL 



THE HUSBANDMAN. 

Eaeth, of man the bounteous mother, 

Feeds him still with corn and wine ; 
He who best would aid a brother, 

Shares with him these gifts divine. 
Many a power within her bosom, 

Noiseless, hidden, works beneath ; 
Hence are seed and leaf and blossom, 

Golden ear and cluster'd wreath. 

These to swell with strength and beauty, 

Is the royal task of man ; 
Man's a king, his throne is Duty, 

Since his work on earth began. 
Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage, 

These, like man, are fruits of earth ; 
Stamp'd in clay, a heavenly mintage, 

All from dust receive their birth. 

Barn and mill and wine-vat's treasures, 

Earthly goods for earthly lives, 
These are Nature's ancient pleasures, 

These her child from her derives. 
What the dream but vain rebelling, 

If from earth we sought to flee ? 
'Tis our stored and ample dwelling, 

'Tis from it the skies we see. 

Wind and frost, and hour and season, 

Land and water, sun and shade, 
Work with these as bids thy reason, 

For they work thy toil to aid. 
Sow thy seed and reap in gladness ! 

Man himself is all a seed; 
Hope and hardship, joy and sadness 

Slow the plant to ripeness lead. 



LOUIS XV. 

The King with all the kingly train had left 

his Pompadour behind, 
And forth he rode in Senart's wood the royal 

beasts of chase to find. 
That day by chance the Monarch mused, 

and turning suddenly away, 
He struck alone into a path that far from 

crowds and courtiers lay. 



POEMS OF JOHN STERLING. 



671 



He saw the pale green shadows play upon 

the brown untrodden earth ; 
He saw the birds around him flit as if he 

were of peasant birth ; 
He saw the trees that know no king but him 

who bears a woodland axe ; 
He thought not, but he look'd about like 

one who still in thinking lacks. 

Then close to him a footstep fell, and glad 
of human sound was he, 

For truth to say he found himself but mel- 
ancholy companie ; 

But that which he would ne'er have guess'd, 
before him now most plainly came; 

The man upon his weary back a coffin bore 
of rudest frame. 

'•* Why, who art thou ?" exclaim'd the King, 

" and what is that I see thee bear?" 
"I am a laborer in the wood, and 'tis a coffin 

for Pierre. 
Close by the royal hunting-lodge you may 

have often seen him toil ; 
But he will never work again, and I for him 

must dipr the soiL" 



The laborer ne'er had seen the King, and 
this he thought was but a man, 

Who made at first a moment's pause and 
then anew his talk began ; 

"I think I do remember now, — he had a 
dark and glancing eye, 

And I have seen his sturdy arm with won- 
drous strokes the pickaxe ply. 

"Pray tell me, friend, what accident can 

thus have kill'd our good Pierre ?" 
" O ! nothing more than usual, sir, he died 

of living upon air. 
'Twas hunger kill'd the poor good man, who 

long on empty hopes relied ; 
He could not pay Gabelle and tax and feed 

his children, so he died. " 

The man stopp'd short, and then went on— 

" It is, you know, a common story, 
Our children's food is eaten up by courtiers, 

mistresses, and glory." 
The King look'd hard upon the man, and 

afterward the coffin eyed, 
Then spurr'd to ask of Pompadour, how 

came it that the peasants died ? 



POEMS OF REV. CHARLES WOLFE. 



GO ! FORGET ME. 

Go, forget me — why should sorrow 
O'er that brow a shadow fling ? 

Go, forget me — and to-morrow 
Brightly smile, and sweetly sing. 

Smile — though I shall not be near thee : 

Sing — though I shall never hear thee : 
May thy soul with pleasure shine, 
Lasting as the gloom of mine. 

Like the sun, thy presence glowing, 
Clothes the meanest things in light, 

And when thou, like him, art going, 
Loveliest objects fade in night. 

All things look'd so bright about thee, 

That they nothing seem without thee ; 
By that pure and lucid mind 
Earthly things were too refined. 

Go, thou vision wildly gleaming, 

Softly on my soul that fell ; 
Go, for me no longer beaming — 

Hope and Beauty ! fare ye well ! 
Go, and all that once delighted 
Take, and leave me all benighted ; 

Glory's burning, generous swell, 

Fancy and the Poet's shelL 



THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. 

"Sot a drum was heard, not a funeral-note, 
As his corse to the rampart we hurried ; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 



We buried him darkly at dead of night, 
The sods with our bayonets turning, 

By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, 
And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him ; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 
And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; 

But we steadfastly gazed on the face that 
was dead, 
And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow 
bed, 
And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, 
That the foe and stranger would tread o'er 
his head, 
And we far away on the billow ! 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, 
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, — 

But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done, 

When the clock struck the hour for re- 
tiring; 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 
From the field of his fame, fresh and 

gory; 
We carved not a line, we raised not a stone- 
But we left him alone in his glory I 



POEMS OF REV. CHARLES WOLFE. 



673 



THE CHAINS OF SPAIN ARE 
BREAKING, 

The chains of Spain are breaking ! 

Let Gaul despair, and fly ; 
Her wrathful trumpet's speaking, 

Let tyrants hear, and die. 

Her standard, o'er us arching, 

Is burning red and far ; 
The soul of Spain is marching, 

In thunders to the war — 

Look around your lovely Spain, 
And say, shall Gaul remain ? — 
Behold yon burning valley ; 
Behold yon naked plain — 
Let us hear their drum — 
Let them come, let them come ! 
For vengeance and freedom rally, 
And, Spaniards ! onward for Spain. 

Remember ! remember Barossa ; 

Remember Napoleon's chain — 
Remember your own Saragossa, 

And strike for the cause of Spain — 
Remember your own Saragossa, 

And onward ! onward ! for Spain. 



OH! SAY NOT THAT MY 
COLD. 

Oh ! say not that my heart is cold 

To aught that once could warm it ; 
That nature's form, so dear of old, 

No more has power to charm it ; 
Or that the ungenerous world can chill, 

One glow of fond emotion, 
For those, who made it dearer still, 

And shared my wild devotion. 

Still oft those solemn scenes I view, 

In rapt and dreamy sadness ; 
Oft look on those, who loved them too, 

With fancy's idle gladness ; 
Again I long'd to view the light, 

In nature's features glowing ; 
Again to tread the mountain's height, 

And taste the soul's o'erflowing. 



Stern duty rose, and frowning flung 

Her leaden chain around me ; 
With iron look, and sullen tongue, 

He mutter'd, as he bound me — 
" The mountain breeze, the boundless heaven, 

Unfit for toil the creature ; 
These for the free, alone, are given — 

B*ut, what have slaves with nature ?" 



GONE FROM HER CHEEK. 

Gone from her cheek is the summer bloom, 
And her cheek has lost its faint perfume, 
And the gloss has dropp'd from her raven 

hair, 
And her forehead is pah), though no longer 

fair; 
And the spirit, that set in her soft, blue eye, 
Is sunk in cold mortality ; 
And the smile that play'd on her lip is fled^ 
And every grace has left the dead. 

Like slaves, they obey'd her in height of 

power, 
But left her, all, in her winter-hour ; 
And the crowds that swore for her love to 

die, 
Shrunk from the tone of her parting sigh— 

And this is man's fidelity ! 

"lis woman alone, with a firmer heart, 
Can see all those idols of life depart ; 
And love the more, and soothe, and bless 
Man in his utter wretchedness. 



OH, MY LOVE HAS AN EYE OF THE 
SOFTEST BLUE. 

Oh, my love has an eye of the softest blue, 
Yet it was not that that won me ; 

But a little bright drop from her soul WM> 
there, 
'Tis that that has undone me. 



674 



POEMS OF REV. CHARLES WOLFE. 



I might have pass'd that lovely cheek, 
Nor perchance my heart have left me; 

But the sensitive blush that came trembling 
there, 
Of my heart it forever bereft me. 

I might have forgotten that red, red lip, 
Yet how from that thought to sever ? 

But there was a smile from the sunshine 
within, 
And that smile I'll remember forever. 

Think not 'tis nothing but lifeless clay, 
The elegant form that haunts me ; 

'Tis the gracefully elegant mind that moves 
In every step, that enchants me. 

Let me not hear the nightingale sing, 
Though I once in its notes delighted ; 

The feeling and mind that comes whispering 
forth 
Has left me no music beside it. 

Who could blame had I loved that face, 
Ere my eye could twice explore her ; 

Yet it is for the fairy intelligence there, 
And her warm, warm heart, I adore her. 



IF I HAD THOUGHT THOU COULDST 
HAVE DIED. 

If I had thought thou couldst have died, 
I might not weep for thee ; 



But I forgot, when by thy side, 
That thou couldst mortal be. 

It never through my mind had pass'd 
The time would e'er be o'er, 

And I on thee should look my last, 
And thou shouldst smile no more. 

And still upon that face I look, 

And think 'twill smile again ; 
And still the thought I will not brook, 

That I must look in vain, 
i But when I speak, thou dost not say 

What thou ne'er leftst unsaid, 
And now I feel, as well I may, 

Sweet Mary ! thou art dead. 

If thou wouldst stay e'en as thou art, 

All cold, and all serene, 
I still might press thy silent heart, 

And where thy smiles have been ! 
While e'en thy chill bleak corse I havt>, 

Thou seemest still mine own, 
But there I lay thee in thy grave — 

And I am now alone. 

I do not think, where'er thou art, 

Thou hast forgotten me ; 
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart 

In thinking too of thee ; 
Yet there was ronnd thee such a dawn 

Of light ne'er seen before, 
As fancy never could have drawa, 

And never can restore. 



POEMS OF JOHN ANSTER. 



DIRGE SONG. 

From the Irish. 
Like the oak of the vale was thy strength 

and thy height, 
Thy foot like the erne of the mountain in 

flight: 
Thy arm was the tempest of Loda's fierce 

breath, 
Thy blade, like the blue mist of Lego, was 

death ! 

Alas, how soon the thin cold cloud 
The hero's Moody limbs must shroud ! 
I see thy father, fall of days ; 
For thy return behold him gaze ; 
The hand, that rests upon the spear, 
Trembles in feebleness and fear — 
He shudders, and his bald, gray brow 
Is shaking, like the aspen bough ; 
He gazes, till his dim eyes fail 
With gazing on the fancied sail : 
Anxious he looks — what sudden streak 
Flits, like a sunbeam, o'er his cheek ! 
" Joy, joy, my child, it is the bark, 
That bounds on yonder billow dark !" 
His child looks forth with straining 

eye, 
And sees — the light cloud sailing by : 
His gray head shakes; how sad, how 

weak 
That sigh ! how sorrowful that cheek ! 

His bride from her slumbers will waken and 

weep, 
But when shall the hero arouse him from 

sleep ? 
The yell of the stag-hound — the clash of the 

spear, 
May ring o'er his tomb — but the dead cannot 

hear. 
Once he wielded the sword, once he cheer'd 

to the hound, 



Bat his pleasures are past, and his slumber 

is sound : 
Await not his coming, ye sons of the 

chase, 
Day dawns ! but it nerves not the dead for 

the race ; 
Await not his coming, ye sons of the 

spear, 
The war-song ye sing — but the dead will not 



Oh ! blessing be with him who sleeps in the 

grave, 
The leader of Lochlin ! the young and the 

brave ! 
On earth didst thou scatter the strength of 

our foes, 
Then blessing be thine, in thy cloud of repose ! 
Like the oak of the vale was thy strength 

and thy might, 
Thy foot, like the erne of the mountain in 

flight ; 
Thy arm was the tempest of Loda's fierce 



Thy blade, like the blue mist of Lego, was 
death. 



THE HARP. 

Clara, hast thou not often seen, and smiled, 

A rosy child, 
Deeming that none were near, 
Touch with a trembling hand 

Some fine-toned instrument ; 
Then gaze, with sparkling eye, as on her 

ear 
The murmurs died, like gales, that having 
fann'd 

Soft summer flowers, sink spent. 



POEMS OF JOHN ANSTER. 



Half fearing, still she lingers, 

Till o'er the strings again she flings, 

Less tremblingly, her fingers ! — 
But if a stranger eye 
The timid sport should spy, 
Oh ! then, with pulses wild, 
This rosy child 
Will throb, and fly, 

Turn pale and tremble, trem'ble and turn red, 

And in thy bosom hide her head. 

Even thus the harp to me 

Hath been a plaything strange, 
A thing of fear, of wonder, and of glee ; 

Tet would I not exchange 
This light harp's simple gear for all that 

man holds dear ; 
And should the stranger's ear its tones re- 
gardless hear, 

It still is sweet to thee ! 



THE EVERLASTING ROSE. 

Emblem of hope ! enchanted flower, 

Still breathe around thy faint perfume, 
Still smile amid the wintry hour, 

And boast, even now, a spring-tide bloom : 
Thine is, methinks, a pleasant dream, 

Lone lingerer in the icy vale, 
Of smiles that hail'd the morning beam, 

And sighs more sweet for evening's gale 1 

Still are thy green leaves whispering 

Low sounds to fancy's ear, that tell 
Of mornings when the wild-bee's wing 

Shook dew-drops from thy sparkling cell ! 
With thee the graceful lily vied, 

As summer breezes waved her head ; 
And now the snow-drop at thy side 

Meekly contrasts thy cheerful red. 

Well dost thou know each varying voice 

That wakes the seasons, sad or gay ; 
The summer thrush bids thee rejoice, 

And wintry robin's dearer lay. 
Sweet flower! how happy dost thou seem, 

'Mid parching heat, 'mid nipping frost ! 
While gathering beauty from each beam, 

No hue, no grace, of thine is lost I 



Thus hope, 'mid life's severest days, 

Still soothes, still smiles away despair; 
Alike she lives in pleasure's rays, 

And cold affliction's winter air : 
Charmer alike in lordly bower 

And in the hermit's cell, she glows; 
The poet's and the lover's flower, 

The bosom's everlastip.sr rose ! 



IF I MIGHT CHOOSE. 

If I might choose where my tired limbs 

shall lie 
When my task here is done, the oak's green 
crest 
Shall rise above my grave — a little mound, 
Raised in some cheerful village cemetery. 
And I could wish, that, with unceasing 
sound, 
A lonely mountain rill was murmuring by — 
In music — through the long soft twilight 
hours. 
And let the hand of her, whom I love best, 
Plant round the bright green grave those 
fragrant flowers 
In whose deep bells the wild-bee loves to 
rest ; 
And should the robin from some neighbor- 
ing tree 
Pour his enchanted song — oh ! softly tread, 
For sure, if aught of earth can soothe the 
dead, 
He still must love that pensive, melody I 



OH ! IF, AS ARABS FANCY. 

Oh! if, as Arabs fancy, the traces on thy 

brow 
Were symbols of thy future state, and I 

could read them now, 
Almost without a fear would I explore the 

mystic chart, 
Believing that the world were weak t» 

darken such a heart. 



POEMS OF JOHN ANSTER. 



As yet to thy untroubled soul, as yet to thy 

young eyes, 
The skies above are very heaven — the earth 



The birds that glance in joyous air — the 

flowers that happiest be, 
They toil not, neither do they spin, are they 

not types of thee ? 

And yet, and yet — beloved child — to thy 

enchanted sight, 
Blest as the present is, the days to come seem 

yet more bright, 



For thine is hope, and thine is love, and 

thine the glorious power 
That gives to hope its fairy light, to love its 

richest dower. 

For me that twilight time is past — those 

sunrise colors gone — 
The prophecies of childhood — and the 

promises of dawn ; 
And yet what is, though scarcely heard, will 

speak of what has been, 
While love assumes a gentler tone, and hope 



A POEM BY WILLIAM CONGREYE. 



A CATHEDRAL. 



Enter Almeria and Leonora. 



Aim. It was a fancied noise, for all is 

hush'd. 
Leon. It bore the accent of a human voice. 
Aim. It was thy fear, or else some tran- 
sient wind 
Whistling through hollows of this vaulted 

aisle. 
We'll listen— 
Leon. Hark! 

Aim. No, all is hush'd, and still as death 
— 'tis dreadful ! 
How reverend is the face of this tall pile, 
Whose ancient pillars rear their marble 

heads, 
To bear aloft its arch'd and ponderous roof, 
By its own weight made steadfast and im- 
movable, 
Looking tranquillity ! It strikes an awe 
And terror on my aching sight ; the tombs 
And monumental caves of death look cold, 
And shoot a chillness to my trembling 

heart. 
Give me thy hand, and let me hear thy 

voice ; 
Nay, quickly speak to me, and let me hear 



Thy voice — my own affrights me with its 



Leon. Let us return ; the horror of thia 
place, 
And silence, will increase your melancholy. 
Aim. It may my fears, but cannot add to 
that. 
No, I will on : show me Anselmo's tomb, 
Lead me o'er bones and skulls, and moulder- 
ing earth 
Of human bodies ; for I'll mix with them, 
Or wind me in the shroud of some pale corpse 
Yet green in earth, rather than be the bride 
Of Garcia's more detested bed : that thought 
Exerts my spirits, and my present fears 
Are lost in dread of greater ill. Then show 

me, 
Lead me, for I am bolder grown : lead on 
Where I may kneel, and pay my vows again 
To him, to Heaven, and my Alphonso's soul. 
Leon. I go; but Heaven can tell with 
what regret. 



1 Tills Is the passage that Johnson admired so much. 
" Congreve," he said, " has one finer passage than any that 
can be found in Shakespeare." 



POEMS OF JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. 



OH! SLEEP. 

Oh ! sleep, awhile thy power suspending, 

Weigh not my eyelids down ; 
For memory, see ! with eve attending, 

Claims a moment for her own. 
I know her by her robe of mourning, 

I know her by her faded light, 
When faithful, with the gloom returning, 

She comes to bid a sad good-night. 

Oh ! let me here, with bosom swelling, 

While she sighs o'er the time that's past — 
Oh ! let me weep, while she is telling 

Of joys that pine, and pangs that last. 
And now, oh ! sleep, while grief is streaming, 

Let thy balm sweet peace restore, 
While fearful hope, through tears is beaming, 

Soothe to rest, that wakes no more. 



THE DESERTER'S LAMENTATION. 

If, sadly thinking, 
With spirits sinking, 
Could more than drinking 

Our griefs compose — 
A cure for sorrow, 
From grief I'd borrow, 
And hope to-morrow 

Might end my woes. 

But since in wailing 
There's naught availing, 
For death unfailing 

Will strike the blow: 



Then for that reason, 
And for a season, 
Let us be merry 

Before we go ! 
A way-worn ranger, 
To joy a stranger, 
Through every danger 

My course I've run : 
Now death befriending, 
His last aid lending, 
My griefs are ending, 

My woes are done. 

No more a rover, 
Or hapless lover, 
Those cares are over — 

My cup runs low ; 
Then, for that reason, 
And for the season, 
Let us be merry 

Before we go. 



THE MONKS OF THE ORDER OF 
ST. PATRICK, 

COMMONLY CALLED 

THE MONKS OF THE SCREW. 1 

When St. Patrick this order establish'd, 
He call'd us the " Monks of the Screw ; w 

Good Rules he reveal'd to our Abbot, 
To guide us in what we should do ; 



i mi* celebrated Society was partly political and partly coy 
vtrial ; it consisted of tiro parts— professed and lay brother*. 




IPMEILIP©! ®UI! 



POEMS OF JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. 



679 



But first he replenish'd our fountain 
With liquor the hest in the sky ; 

And he said, on the word of a saint, 
That the fountain should never run dry. 

Each year, when your octaves approach, 

In full chapter convened let me find you ; 
And when to the Convent you come, 

Leave your favorite temptation behind 
you. 
And be not a glass in your Convent, 

Unless on a festival, found ; 
And, this rule to enforce, I ordain it 

One festival all the year round. 

My brethren, be chaste, till you're tempted ; 
While sober, be grave and discreet ; 



As the latter had no privileges except that of commons in the 
refectory, they are unnoticed here. 

The professed (by the constitution) consisted of members 
of either house of Parliament, and barristers, with the addi- 
tion from the other learned professions of any numbers not ex- 
ceeding a third of the whole. They assembled every Saturday 
in Convent (in St. Kevin Street, Dublin), during term-time, 
and commonly held a chapter before commons, at which the 
Abbot presided, or in his (very rare) absence, the Prior, or 
senior officer present. Upon such occasions all the members 
appeared in the habit of the order, a black tabinet domino. 
Temperance and Sobriety always prevailed. 

Mr. Curran (who was Prior of the order) being asked one 
day to sing a song, after commons, 6aid he would give them 
one of his own, and sang the following, which was adopted at 
once as the charter song of the Society, and was called " The 
Monks of the Screw." 

This Society consisted of 56 members ; and Mr. Wm. Henry 
Curran, in the Memoir of his father, adds, u most of them dis- 
tinguished men." We think it worth while to give a few of 
their names and titles. Earl of Charlemont ; Earl of Arran ; 
Earl of Mornington (Duke of Wellington's father); Hussey 
Bnrgh, Chief Baron ; Judge Robert Johnson ; Henry Grattan ; 
John Philpot Curran ; Woolfe, Lord Kilwarden ; Lord Avon- 
more ; Eev. Arthur O'Leary (Hon.). The Marquis of Town- 
Bend joined the Society while he was Viceroy of Ireland. 

That the festive meetings of men of such high mark must 
have been of more than ordinary brilliancy, one may well con- 
ceive, but the most eloquent evidence of that fact was given 
by Curran in a touching address to Lord Avonmore, while sit- 
ting on the judicial bench ; so touching, and so eloquent, as 
well as happily illustrative of Curran's style, that it is worth 
recording :— 

" This soothing hope I draw from the dearest and tenderest 
recollections of my life— from the remembrance of those attic 
nights, and those refections of the gods, which we have spent 
■with those admired, and respected, and beloved companions 
who have gone before us ; over whose ashes the most precious 
tears of Ireland have been shed. [Here Lord Avonmore could 
not refrain from Bursting into tears.] Yes, my good Lord, I 
eee you do not forget them. I see their sacred forms passing 
in ead review before your memory. I see your pained and 
Boftened fancy recalling those happy meetings, where the in- 
nocent enjoyment of social mirth became expanded into the 
nobler warmth of social virtue, and the horizon of the board 
became enlarged into the horizon of man— where the swelling 
Heart conceived and communicated the pure and generous 
purpose— where my slenderer and younger taper imbibed its 
borrowed light from the more matured and redundant fountain 



And humble your bodies with fasting, 
As oft as you've nothing to eat. 

Yet, in honor of fasting, one lean face 
Among you I'd always require ; 

If the Abbot should please, he may wear it. 
If not, let it come to the Prior." 

Come, let each take his chalice, my brethren. 

And with due devotion prepare, 
With hands and with voices uplifted, 

Our hymn to conclude with a prayer. 
May this chapter oft joyously meet, 

And this gladsome libation renew, 
To the Saint, and the Founder, and Abbot, 

And Prior, and Monks of the Screw ! 



of yours. Yes, my Lord, we can remember those nights with. 
out any other regret than that they can never more return, fat 

' We spent them not in toys, or luBt, or wine, 
But search of deep philosophy, 
Wit, eloquence, and poesy, 
Arts which I loved, for they, my friend, were thine f* "— 
Cowley. 

Lord Avonmore, in whose breaBt political resentment wai 
easily subdued, by the same noble tenderness of feeling which 
distinguished Mr. Fox upon a more celebrated occasion, could 
not withstand this appeal to his heart. At this period (1804) 
there was a suspension of intercourse between him and Mr. 
Curran ; but the moment the court rose, his Lordship sent for 
his friend, and threw himself into his arms, declaring that 
unworthy artifices had been used to separate them, and that 
they should never succeed in future. 

And now for an instance of Mr. Curran's humor ; and as it 
ariseB, like the foregoing gush of eloquence, from allusions 
to " The Monks of the Screw," it is evident that Society held 
a very cherished place in his memory. Mr. Curran visited 
France in 1787, and was received with distinguished welcome 
everywhere. Among 6uch receptions was one at a Convent, 
thus recorded. " He was met at the gates by the Abbot and 
his brethren in procession ; the keys of the Convent were 
presented to him, and his arrival hailed in a Latin oration. 
setting forth his praise, and their gratitude for his noble pro- 
tection of a suffering brother of their Church (alluding to his 
legal defence of a Roman Catholic clergyman). Their Latin 
was so bad, that the stranger without hesitation replied in the 
same language. After expressing his general acknowledg- 
ment for their hospitality, he assured them that nothing 
could be more gratifying to him than to reside a few days 
among them ; that he should feel himself perfectly at home 
in their society ; for that he was by no means a stranger to the 
habits of a monastic life, being himself no less than the Prior 
of an order in bis own country, the order of St. Patrick, or 
the Monks of the Screw. Their fame, he added, might not 
have reached the Abbot's ears, but he would undertake to as- 
sert for them, that, though the brethren of other orders might 
be more celebrated for learning how to die, the Monks of 
the Screw' were, as yet, unsurpassed for knowing how to 
live. A8,however,humilitywastheirgreat1enet and uniform 
practice, he would give an example of it upon the present 
occasion, and instead of accepting all the keys which the 
Abbot so liberally offered, would merely take charge, while 
he stayed, of the key of the wine-cellar." 

Curran's IAfe, by his son Wm. Henry Curran. 

3 William Doyle (MaBter in Chancery), the Abbot, had a 
remarkably large full face. Mr. Curran's was the very reverse. 



POEMS OF JOHN PHILPOT CURRAN. 



THE GREEN SPOT THAT BLOOMS 
O'ER THE DESERT OF LIFE. 

O'er the desert oflife,where you vainly pursued 
Those phantoms of hope, which their 
promise disown, 
Have you e'er met some spirit, divinely endued, 
That so kindly could say, you don't suffer 
alone ? 
And, however your fate may have smiled, or 
have frown'd, 
Will she deign, still, to share as the friend 
or the wife ? 
Then make her the pulse of your heart; for 
you've found 
The green spot that hlooms o'er the desert 
of life. 



Does she love to recall the past moments, so 
dear, 
When the sweet pledge of faith was con- 
fidingly given, 
When the lip spoke the voice of affection 
sincere, 
And the vow was exchanged, and recorded 
in heaven ? 
Does she wish to re-bind, what already was 
bound, 
And draw closer the claim of the friend 
and the wife ? 
Then make her the pulse of your heart ; for 
you've found 
The green spot that blooms o'er the desert 
of life. 



POEMS OF DR. WILLIAM MAGINN. 



THE SACK OF MAGDEBURGH. 1 

When the breach was open laid, hold we 
mounted to the attack ; 

Five times the assault was made, — four times 
were we beaten back. 

Many a gallant comrade fell, in the desper- 
ate melee there : 

Sped their spirits ill or well — know I not, 
nor do I care. 

But the fifth time, up we strode o'er the 

dying and the dead ; 
Hot the western sunbeam glow'd, sinking in 

a blaze of red. 
Redder i in the gory way, our deep-plashing 



As the cry of " Slay, slay, slay 1" echoed 
fierce from rank to rank. 

And we slew, and slew, and slew — slew them 

with unpitying sword: 
Negligently could we do the commanding 

of the Lord? 



1 The sack of thlg ill-lated city occurred during the Thirty 
Tears' War. The partisans of the Eeformation formed a 
union as early as 1608 ; and the Catholics in opposition estab- 
lished a league in 1609. Here were the elements of an inevi- 
table contest, and in 1618 the struggle commenced. For 30 
years, Europe was the battlefield of religious factions, and 
Germany was reduced to a wilderness. Fire and sword des- 
olated it from end to end. The only result was the improve- 
ment of the art of war, by the genius of Gustavus Adolphus, 
and the terrible warning it affords to those who stir np the 
religious animosities of a nation.— The defence of Magde- 
burgh was confided to Christian William of Brandenburg, and 
the gallant Colonel Falkenberg, who was sent by Gustavus 
AdolphuB to its support. The investing army of the League 
was commanded by Tilly, a stern soldier, whose boast was 
that he never tasted wine, never lost his chastity, nor ever suf- 
fered defeat. GustavuB, however, conquered him ultimately ; 
but he had no occasion to retract his boast, for he fell with his 
defeat. At the sack of Magdebnrgh, Tilly was before the city 
from March, 1631, and was about to raise the siege, iu expec- 
tation of Gustavus to its assistance, but he was overruled by 
the fiery Pappenheim, who proposed an immediate attack. 
Preparations were made forthwith, and the storming com- 
menced. In about six weeks the city fell, notwithstanding 
the bravery of the garrison, and it is estimated that upwards 
of 36,000 persons perished. 



Fled the coward — fought the brave, — wail'd 
the mother, wept the child, 

But not one escaped the glaive, man who 
frown'd or babe who smiled. 

There were thrice ten thousand men, when 

the morning sun arose ; 
Lived not thrice three hundred when sunk 

that sun at evening close. 
Then we spread the wasting flame, fann'd to 

fury by the wind ; 
Of the city, out the name — nothing more is 

left behind ! 

Hall and palace, dome and tower, lowly shed 
and soaring spire, 

Fell in that victorious hour which consign'd 
the town to fire. 

All that rose at craftman's call — to its pris- 
tine dust had gone, 

For, inside the shatter'd wall, left we never 
stone on stone — 

For it burnt not till it gave all it had to yield 
of spoil; 

Should not brave soldadoes have some re- 
warding for their toil ? 

What the villain sons of trade had amass'd 
by years of care, 

Prostrate at our bidding laid, by one mo- 
ment won, was there. 

Then, within the burning town, 'mid the 

steaming heaps of dead, 
Cheer'd by sounds of hostile moan, did we 

the joyous banquet spread. 
Laughing loud and quaffing long, with our 

glorious labors o'er ; 
To the sky our jocund song, told the city 

was no more I 



POEMS OF DR. WILLIAM MAGINN. 



THE SOLDIER-BOY. 

I give my soldier-boy a blade, 

In fair Damascus fashion'd well ; 
Who first the glittering falchion sway'd, 

Who first beneath its fury fell, 
I know not, but I hope to know 

That for no mean or hireling trade, 
To guard no feeling base or low, 

I give my soldier-boy a blade. 

Cool, calm, and clear, the lucid flood 

In which its tempering work was done ; 
As calm, as clear, as cool of mood, 

Be thou whene'er it sees the sun. 
For country's claim, at honor's call, 

For outraged friend, insulted maid, 
At mercy's voice to bid it fall, 

I give my soldier-boy a blade. 

The eye which mark'd its peerless edge, 

The hand that weigh'd its balanced poise, 
Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge, 

Are gone with all their flame and noise — 
And still the gleaming sword remains : 

So, when in dust I low am laid, 
Remember, by those heartfelt strains, 

I gave my soldier-boy a blade. 



THE BEATEN BEGGARMAN. 

(From the Greek.) 

There came the public beggarman, who all 

throughout the town 
Of Ithaca, upon his quest for alms, begged 

up and down ; 
Huge was his stomach, without cease for 

meat and drink craved he ; 
No strength, no force his body had, though 

vast it was to see. 

He got as name from parent dame, Arnseus, 

at his birth, 
But Irus was the nickname given by gallants 

in their mirth : 



For he, where'er they chose to send, their 
speedy errands bore, 

And now he thought to drive away Odys- 
seus from his door. 

" Depart, old man 1 and quit the poroh," he 

cried, with insult coarse, 
"Else quickly by the foot thou shalt be 

dragg'd away by force : 
Dost thou not see, how here on me their 

eyes are turn'd by all, 
In sign to bid me stay no more, but drag 

thee from the hall ? 

"'Tis only shame that holds me back; so 

get thee up and go ! 
Or ready stand with hostile hand to combat 

blow for blow." 
Odysseus said, as stern he look'd, with 

angry glance, "My friend, 
Nothing of wrong in deed or tongue do I to 

thee intend. 

"I grudge not whatsoe'er is given, how great 
may be the dole, 

The threshold is full large for both ; be not of 
envious soul. 

It seems 'tis thine, as well as mine, a wan- 
derer's life to live, 

And to the gods alone belongs a store of 
wealth to give. 

" But do not dare me to the blow, nor rouse 

my angry mood ; — 
Old as I am, thy breast and lips might stain 

my hands with blood. 
To-morrow free I then from thee the day in 

peace would spend, 
For nevermore to gain these walls thy beaten 

limbs would bend." 

"Heavens! how this glutton glibly talks I" 

the vagrant Irus cried ; 
" Just as an old wife loves to prate, smoked 

at the chimney side. 
If I should smite him, from bis mouth the 

shatter'd teeth were torn, 
As from the jaws of plundering swine, 

caught rooting up the corn. 



POEMS OF DR. WILLIAM MAGINN. 



"Come, gird thee for the fight, that they 

our contest may behold, 
If thou'lt expose to younger arms thy body 

frail and old." 
So in debate engaged they sate upon the 

threshold stone, 
Before the palace' lofty gate wrangling in 

angry tone. 

Antonious mark'd, and with a laugh the 

suitors he address'd : 
" Never, I ween, our gates have seen so gay 

a cause of jest ; 
Some god, intent on sport, has sent this 

stranger to our hall, 
And he and Irus mean to fight : so set we on 

the brawl." 



Gay laugh'd the guests and straight arose, 

on frolic errand bound, 
About the ragged beggarman a ring they 

made around. 
Antonious cries, " A fitting prize for the 

combat I require, 
Paunches of goat you see are here now lying 

on the fire : 



" This dainty food all full of blood, and fat 
of savory taste, 

Intended for our evening's meal there to be 
cook'd we placed. 

Whichever of these champions bold may 
chance to win the day, 

Be he allow'd which paunch he will to 
choose and bear away ; 

And he shall at our board henceforth par- 
take our genial cheer, 

No other beggarman allow'd the table to 
come near." 



They all agreed, and then upspoke the chief 

of many a wile : 
"Hard is it when ye match with youth age 

overrun with toil ; 
The belly, counsellor of ill, constrains me 

now to go, 
Sure to be beaten in the fight with many a 

heavy blow. 



"But plight your troth with solemn oath v 

that none will raise his hand 
My foe to help with aid unfair, while I before 

him stand." 
They took the covenant it had pleased 

Odysseus to propose ; 
And his word to plight the sacred might of 

Telemachus arose. 

"If," he exclaim'd, "thy spirit bold, and 

thy courageous heart, 
Should urge thee from the palace gate to 

force this man to part, 
Thou needst not fear that any here will 

strike a fraudful blow ; 
Who thus would dare his hand to rear must 

fight with many a foe. 

" Upon me falls within these halls the 

stranger's help to be ; 
Antonious and Eurymachus, both wise, will 

join with me." 
All gave assent, and round his loins his rags 

Odysseus tied ; 
Then was display'd each shoulder-blade of 

ample form and wide. 

His shapely thighs of massive size were all to 

sight confess'd, 
So were his arms of muscle strong, so was 

his brawny breast ; 
Athene, close at hand, each limb to nobler 

stature swell'd ; 
In much amaze did the suitors gaze, when 

they his form beheld. 

" Irus un-Irused now," they said, " will catch 

his sought-for woe ; 
Judge by the hips which from his rags this 

old man stripp'd can show." 
And Irus trembled in his soul ; but soon the 

servants came, 
Girt him by force, and to the fight dragg'd 

on his quivering frame. 

There as he shook in every limb, Antonious 

spoke in scorn : 
"'Twere better, bullying boaster, far, that 

thou hadst ne'er been born, 



684 



POEMS OF DR. WILLIAM MAGINN. 



If thus thou quake and tremhling shake, 
o'ercome with coward fear, 

Of meeting with this ag4d man, worn down 
with toil severe., 

«I warn thee thus, and shall perform full 

surely what I say — 
If conqueror in the fight, his arm shall 

chance to win the day, 
Epirus-ward thou hence shalt sail, in sahle 

hark consign'd 
To charge of Echetus the king, terror of all 

mankind. 

' He'll soon deface all manly trace with un- 
relenting steel, 

And make thy sliced-off nose and ears for 
hungry dogs a meal" 

He spoke, and with those threatening words 
fill'd Irus with fresh dread ; 

And trembling more in every limb, ho to the 
midst was led. 

Both raised their hands, and then a doubt 

pass'd through Odysseus' brain, 
Should he strike him so, that a single blow 

would lay him with the slain, 
Or stretch him with a gentler touch prostrate 

upon the ground: 
On pondering well this latter course the wiser 

one he found. 

For if his strength was fully shown, he knew 

that all men's eyes 
The powerful hero would detect, despite his 

mean disguise. 
Irus the king's right shoulder hit, then he 

with smashing stroke 
Return'd a blow beneath the ear, and every 

bone was broke. 

Burst from his mouth the gushing blood; 

down to the dust he dash'd, 
With bellowing howl, and in the fall his 

teeth to pieces crash'd. 



There lay he, kicking on the earth ; mean- 
while the suitors proud, 

Lifting their hands as fit to die, shouted k 
laughter loud. 



Odysseus seized him by the foot, and dragged 

him through the hall, 
To porch and gate, and left him laid against 

the boundary wall. 
He placed a wand within his hand, and said, 

" The task is thine, 
There seated with this staff to drive away 

the dogs and swine ; 



"But on the stranger and the poor never 

again presume 
To act as lord ; else, villain base, thine may 

be heavier doom." 
So saying, o'er his back he flung his cloak 

to tatters rent, 
Then bound it with a twisted rope, and back 

to his seat he went. 



Back to the threshold, while within uprose 
the laughter gay, 

And with kind words was hail'd the man 
who conquer'd in the fray. 

"May Zeus, and all the other gods, O 
stranger ! grant thee still 

Whate'er to thee most choice may be, what- 
ever suits thy will. 



"Thy hand has check'd the beggar bold, 

ne'er to return again 
To Ithaca, for straight shall he be sped across 

the main, 
Epirus-ward, to Echetus, the terror of all 

mankind." 
So spoke they, and the king received the 

"men glad of mind. 




CCffiMJEILE: 



POEMS OF CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. 



THE IRISH EAPPAEEES. 

A PEASANT BALLAD OF 1691. 

Eigh Shamus lie lias gone to France and 

left his crown behind — 
El luck he theirs, both day and night, put 

rimnin' in his mind ! 
Lord Lucan followed after, with his Slashers 

brave and true, 
And now the doleful knell is raised — " What 

will poor Ireland do ? 
"What must poor Ireland do ? 
Our luck," they say " has gone to Erance — 

What can poor Ireland do ? " 

0, never fear for Ireland, for she has so'gers 
still, [on the hill, 

For Bory's boys are in the wood and Bemy's 

And never had poor Ireland more loyal 
hearts than these — 

May God be kind and good to them, the 
faithful Eapparees ! 
The fearless Eapparees ! [Eapparees ! 

The jewel were you, Eory, with your Irish 

Oh, black's your heart, Clan Oliver, and 

coulder than the clay ! 
Oh, high's your head, Clan Sassenach, since 

Sarsfield's gone away ! [ago, 

It's little love you bear us, for sake of long 
But hould your hand, for Ireland still can 

strike a deadly blow — 
Can strike a mortal blow — 
Och ! dliar-a-Chreesth! 'tis she that still 

could strike the deadly blow ! 

The Master's bawn, the Master's seat, a 
surly bodagh fills; 

The Master's son, an outlawed man, is rid- 
ing on the hills. 

But God be praised, that round him throng, 
as thick as summer bees, 

The swords that guarded Limerick wall — his 
loyal Eapparees ! 



His lovin' Eapparees ! 
Who dare say no to Eory oge, with all his 
Eapparees ? 

Black Billy Grimes of Latnamard, he racked 

us long and sore — 
God rest the faithful hearts he broke ! — we'll 

never see them more ! 
But I'll go bail he'll break no more, while 

Turagh has gallows-trees. 
For why? — he met one lonesome night, the 

fearless Eapparees ! 
The angry Eapparees ! 
They'll never sin no more, my boys, who 

cross the Eapparee ! 



THE IEISH CHIEFS. 

Oh ! to have lived like an Ikish Chief, 

when hearts were fresh and true, 
And a manly thought, like a pealing bell, 
would quicken them through and 
through; 
And the seed of a generous hope right soon 

to a fiery action grew, 
And men would have scorn'd to talk and 
talk, and never a deed to do ! 
Oh ! the iron grasp, 
And the kindly clasp, 
And the laugh so fond and gay; 
And the roaring board, 
And the ready sword, 
Were the types of that vanish'd day. 

Oh ! to have lived as Brian lived, and to die 

as Brian died; 
His land to win with the sword, and smile, 

as a warrior wins his bride, 
To knit its force in a kingly host, and rule 

it with kingly pride, 
And still in the girt of its guardian swords 

over victor fields to ride; 



POEMS OF CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. 



And when age was past, 

And when death came fast, 
To look with a soften'd eye 

On a happy race 

"Who had loved his face, 
And to die as a king should die ! 

Oh I to have lived dear Owen's life — to live 

for a solemn end, 
To strive for the ruling strength and skill 

God's saints to the Chosen send ; 
And to come at length with that holy 
strength, the bondage of fraud to rend, 
And pour the light of God's freedom in where 
Tyrants and Slaves were denn'd ; 
And to bear the brand, 
With an equal hand, 
Like a soldier of Truth and Right, 
And, oh ! Saints, to die, 
While our flag flew high, 
Nor to look on its fall or flight ! 

Oh 1 to have lived as Grattan lived, in the 

glow of his manly years, 
To thunder again those iron words that thrill 

like the clash of spears; 
Once more to blend for a holy end, our peas- 
ants, and priests, and peers, 
Till England raged, like a baffled fiend, at 
the tramp of our Volunteers ! 
And, oh ! best of all, 
Far rather to fall 
(With a blesseder fate than he) 
On a conquering field, 
Than one right to yield, 
Of the Island so proud and free ! 

Yet, scorn to cry on the days of old, when 

hearts were fresh and true : 
If hearts be weak, oh ! chiefly then the Mis- 

sion'd their work must do. 
Nor wants our day its own fit way, the want 

is in you and you ; 
For these eyes have seen as kingly a King 
as ever dear Erin knew. 
And with Brian's will, 
And with Owen's skill, 
And with glorious Grattan's love, 
He had freed us soon — 
But death darken'd his noon, 
And he sits with the saints above. 



Oh ! cotad you live as Davis lived — kind 

Heaven be his bed I 
With an eye to guide, and a hand to rale, 

and a calm and kingly head, 
And a heart from whence, like a Holy Well, 

the soul of his land was fed, 
No need to cry on the days of old that your 
holiest hope be sped. 
Then scorn to pray 
For a by-past day — 
The whine of the sightless dumb I 
To the true and wise 
Let a king arise, 
And a holier day is come I 



HsTNISHOWEN 

[Innishowen (pronounced Innishone) 1b a wild and plctur 
esque district in the county Donegal, inhabited chiefly by the 
descendants of the Irish clans, permitted to remain in Ulster 
after the plantation of James I. The native language, and 
the songs and legends of the country, are as universal as the 
people. One of the most familiar of these legends is, that a 
troop of Hugh O'Neill's horse lies in magic Bleep in a cave 
under the hill of Aileach, where the princes of the country 
were formerly installed. These bold troopers only wait to 
have the spell removed to rush to the aid of their country ; 
and a man (says the legend) who wandered accidentally into the 
cave, found them lying beside their horses, fully armed, and 
holding the bridles in their hands. One of them lifted his 
head, and asked, "Is the time come?" and when he received 
no answer— for the intruder was too much frightened to re- 
ply—dropped back into his lethargy. Some of the old folk 
consider the story an allegory, and interpret it as they desire.] 

God bless the gray mountains of dark Done- 
gal, 
God bless Royal Aileach, the pride of them 

all; 
For she sits evermore like a queen on her 

throne, 
And smiles on the valleys of Green Innis- 
howen. 
And fair are the valleys of Green 

Innishowen, 
And hardy the fishers that call them 

their own — 
A race that nor traitor nor coward have 

known 
Enjoy the fair valleys of Green Innis- 
howen. 

Oh ! simple and bold are the bosoms they bear, 
Like the hills that with silence and nature 
they share ; 







:;:■■ QKUR6. 



POEMS OF CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. 



for our God, who hath planted their home 

near his own, 
Breathed His spirit abroad upon fair Innis- 

howen. 
Then praise to our Father for wild 

Innishowen, 
Where fiercely forever the surges are 

thrown — 
Nor weather nor fortune a tempest hath 

blown 
Could shake the strong bosoms of brave 

Innishowen. 

"See the bountiful Couldah 1 careering along — 
A type of their manhood so stately and 

strong — 
On the weary forever its tide is bestown, 
So they share with the stranger in fair In- 
nishowen. 
God guard the kind homesteads of fair 

Innishowen, 
Which manhood and virtue have chosen 

for their own ; 
Not long shall that nation in slavery 

groan, 
That rears the tall peasants of fair 
Innishowen. 

Like that oak of St. Bride which nor Devil 

nor Dane, 
Nor Saxon nor Dutchman could rend from 

her fane, 
They have clung by the creed and the cause 

of their own 
Through the midnight of danger in true 
Innishowen. 
Then shout for the glories of old Innis- 
howen, 
The stronghold that foemen have never 

o'erthrown — 
The soul and the spirit, the blood and 

the bone, 
That guard the green valleys of true 
Innishowen. 

Nor purer of old was the tongue of the 

Gael, 
When the charging dboo made the foreigner 

quail ; 



- The Couldah, or Culdaff, la the chief river In the Tntiia- 



Than it gladdens the stranger in welcome's! 

soft tone, 
In the home-loving cabins of kind Innis- 
howen. 

Oh ! flourish, ye homesteads of kind 
Innishowen, 

Where seeds of a people's redemption 
are sown; 

Right soon shall the fruit of that sowing 
have grown, 

To bless the kind homesteads of green 
Innishowen. 

When they tell us the tale of a spell-stricken 

band 
All entranced, with their bridles and broad- 
swords in hand, 
Who await but the word to give Erin her 

own, 
They can read you that riddle in proud 
Innishowen. 
Hurrah for the Spaemen" of proud 

Innishowen ! — 
Long live the wild Seers of stout Innia- 

howen ! — 
May Mary, our mother, be deaf to their 

moan 
Who love not the promise of pw'd 
Innishowen ! 



THE MUSTER OF THE NORTH. 



1641. 

[The Irish Pale resembled the borders between Scotland 
and England so closely in its general character, that it is no 
extravagant assumption to suppose that it must have given 
birth to a host of poems of the same class as the Border 
Ballads collected by Sir Walter Scott in his own country. 
The same incessant feuds, the same daring adventures, the 
same deadly hatred, and an equally poetic people to sing their 
own achievements, existed in both countries ; and if there are 
few remains of our legendary and local ballads, the disuse of 
the Irish language in which they were written, and the neg- 
lect of our national literature since the Elizabethan war, will 
account for their loss without throwing the smallest doubt on 
their former existence. In fact, they may be deduced as 
plainly from the physical and intellectual condition of the 
country, without any other evidence, as the use f^f weapona 
for war or castles for defence, which it needs no ruins and no 
museums to establish. If they are as completely lost as the 
ballads on which the early history of Eome was founded, they 



' An Ulster and Scotch term signifying a person gifted with 
1 second sight" — a prophet. 



POEMS OF CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. 






as surely existed ; and we have. In lien of a better, that 
remedy for onr lose which Macanlay has bo successfully 
adopted in the case of his " Lays of Ancient Rome"— to sing 
■for onr ancestors such ballads as they probably sung for 
themselves. Historical songs and ballads are the best nutri- 
ment for the nationality and public spirit of a country— the 
recollection of the men and achievements they celebrate act 
or Its youth like a second conscience— they become ashamed 
to disgrace a land that was the mother of such men. The 
memory of Wallace does more for Scotland than the sermons 
often Dr. Chalmers, and Kosciusko makes every Pole respect- 
able throughout the world. Scott's own legendary ballads 
and poems did a thousand times more for Scotland than all he 
ever collected, and Burns's " Scots wha hae" was worth a 
hundred " Minstrelsies of the Border," in its national influ- 
ence. The present ballad is founded on the rising of Ulster 
in 1641, at the commencement of the ten years' war. We have 
always denied the alleged massacre of that era, and the 
atrocious calumnies on Sir Phelim O'Neill; but that the 
natives, in ejecting the English from their towns and castles, 
committed various excesses is undeniable— as is equally the 
hitter provocation— in the plunder of their properties by 
James I., and the long persecution that ensued. The object 
of the ballad is not to excuse these excesses, which we con- 
demn and deplore, but to give a vivid picture of the feelings 
of an outraged people in the first madness of successful 
resistance.] 

Jot ! joy ! the day is come at last, the day 

of hope and pride, 
And see! our crackling bonfires light old 

Bann's rejoicing tide, 
And gladsome bell, and bugle-horn from 

Newry's captured Towers, 
Hark ! how they tell the Saxon swine, this 

land is ours, is ou es ! 

Glory to God ! my eyes have seen the ran- 
somed fields of Down, 

My ears have drunk the joyful news, " Stout 
Phelim hath his own." 

Oh ! may they see and hear no more, Oh ! 
may they rot to clay, 

When they forget to triumph in the conquest 
of to-day. 

Now, now we'll teach the shameless Scot to 

purge his thievish maw, 
Now, now the Courts may fall to pray, for 

Justice is the Law, 
Now, shall the Undertaker 1 square, for once, 

his loose accounts, 
We'll strike, brave boys, a fair result, from 

all his false amounts. 

Come, trample down their robber rule, and 

smite its venal spawn, 
Their foreign laws, their foreign church, 

their ermine and their lawn : 



' The Scotch and English adventurers planted In Ulster by 
met I., were called 



With all the specious fry of fraud that robb'd 

us of our own, 
And plant our ancient laws again beneath 

our lineal throne. 

Our standard flies o'er fifty towers, o'er 

twice ten thousand men, 
Down have we pluck'd the pirate Red, never 

to rise agen ; 
The Green alone shall stream above our 

native field and flood — 
The spotless Green, save where its folds are 

gemm'd with Saxon blood ! f 

Pity !' no, no, you dare not, Priest — not you 

our Father dare 
Preach to us now that godless creed — the 

murderer's blood to spare ; 
To spare his blood, while tombless still our 

slaughter'd kin implore 
" Graves and revenge" from Gobbin-Clifts 

and Carrick's bloody shore !* 

Pity! could we "forget — forgive," if we 

were clods of clay, 
Our martyr'd priests, our banish'd chiefs, 

our race in dark decay, 
And worse than all — you know it, Priest — 

the daughters of our land, 
With wrongs we blush'd to name until the 

sword was in our hand ! 

Pity I well, if you needs must whine, let pity 

have its way, 
Pity for all our comrades true, far from our 

side to-day ; 
The prison-bound who rot in chains, the 

faithful dead who pour'd 
Their blood 'neath Temple's lawless axe or 

Parson's ruffian sword. 

They smote us with the swearer's oath, and 

with the murderer's knife, 
We in the open field will fight, fairly for 

land and life ; 



» Leland, the Protestant historian, states that the Catholic 
Priests " labored zealously to moderate the excesses of war?' 
and frequently protected the English by concealing them In 
their places of worship, and even nnder their altars. 

• The scene of the massacre of the unoffending i 
of Island Magee by the garrison of Carrickfergus. 



POEMS OF CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. 



But, by the Dead and all their wrongs, and 

by our hopes to-day, 
One of us twain shall fight their last, or be 

it we or they — 

They bann'd our faith, they bann'd our lives, 

they trod us into earth, 
Until our very patience . stirr'd their bitter 

hearts to mirth ; 
Even this great flame that wraps them now, 

not we but they have bred, 
Yes, this is their own work, and now, their 

WORK BE OV THEIR HEAD. 

Nay, Father, tell us not of help from Lein- 

ster's Norman Peers, 
If we but shape our holy cause to match 

their selfish fears, — 
Helpless and hopeless be their cause who 

brook a vain delay, 
Our ship is launch'd, our flag's afloat, 

whether they come or stay. 

Let Silken Howth, and savage Slane still 

kiss their tyrant's rod, 
And pale Dunsany still prefer his Master 

to his God, 
Little we'd miss their fathers' sons, the 

Marchmen of the Pale, 
If Irish hearts and Irish hands had Spanish 

blade and mail ? 

Then, let them stay to bow and fawn, or 

fight with cunning words ; 
1 fear me more their courtly acts than 

England's hireling swords, 
Nathless their creed they hate us still, as the 

Despoiler hates, 
Could they love us, and love their prey, our 

kinsmen's lost estates ! 

Our rude array's a jagged rock to smash the 
spoiler's power, 

Or need we aid, His aid we have who 
doom'd this gracious hour ; 

Of yore he led his Hebrew host to peace 
through strife and pain, 

And us he leads the self-same path, the self- 
same goal to gain. 



Down from the sacred hills whereon a Saint 1 

communed with God, 
Up from the vale where Bagnall's blood 

manured the reeking sod, 
Out from the stately woods of Truagh, 

M'Kenna's plunder'd home, 
Like Malin's waves, as fierce and fast, our 

faithful clansmen come. 

Then, brethren, on! — O'Neill's dear shade 

would frown to see you pause — 
Our banish'd Hugh, our martyr'd Hugh, is 

watching o'er your cause— 
His generous error lost the land — he deem'd 

the Norman true ; 
Oh ! forward ! friends, it must not lose the 

land again m you ! 



THE VOICE OF LABOR. 

A CHANT OP THE CITY MEETINGS, A. D. 1843' 

Ye who despoil the sons of toil, saw ye this 

sight to-day, 
When stalwart trade in long brigade, be- 
yond a king's array, 
March'd in the blessed light of Heaven 

beneath the open sky, 
Strong in the might of sacred right, that 

none dare ask them why 
These are the slaves, the needy knaves, ye 

spit upon with scorn — 
The spawn of earth, of nameless birth, and 

basely bred as born ; 
Yet know, ye soft and silken lords, were we 

the thing ye say, 
Your broad domains, your cofler'd gains, 

your lives were ours to-day ! 

Measure that rank, from flank to flank ; 'tis 
fifty thousand strong ; 

And mark you here, in front and rear, 
brigades as deep and long ; 

And know that never blade of foe, or Arran'a 
deadly breeze, 

Tried by assay of storm or fray more daunt- 
less hearts than these : 



POEMS OF CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. 



The sinewy smith, little he recks of his own 

child — the sword ; 
The men of gear, think you they fear their 

handiwork — a Lord ? 
And undismay'd, yon sons of trade might 

see the battle's front, 
Who bravely bore, nor bow'd before the 

deadlier face of want. 

What lack we here of show or form that 
lures your slaves to death ? 

Not serried bands, nor sinewy hands, nor 
music's martial breath ; 

And if we broke the bitter yoke our suppli- 
ant race endure, 

No robbers we — but chivalry — the Army of 
the Poor. 

Shame on ye now, ye lordly crew, that do 
your betters wrong — 

We are no base and braggart mob, but mer- 
ciful and strong. 

Your henchmen vain, your vassal train would 
fly our first defiance ; 

In us — in our strong, tranquil breasts — 
abides your sole reliance. 

Ay ! keep them all, castle and hall, coffers 
and costly jewels — 

Keep your vile gain, and in its train the pas- 
sions that it fuels. 

We envy not your lordly lot — its bloom or 
its decayance: 

But ye have that we claim as ours — our 
right in long abeyance : 

Leisure to live, leisure to love, leisure to 
taste our freedom — 

O ! suffering poor, O ! patient poor, how bit- 
terly you need them ! 

"Ever to moil, ever to toil," that is your 
social charter, 

And city slave or peasant serf, the toiler is 
its martyr. 

Where Frank and Tuscan shed their sweat, 

the goodly crop is theirs — 
If Norway's toil make rich the soil, she eats 

the fruit she rears — 
O'er Maine's green sward there rules no lord, 

saving the Lord on high ; 
But we are slaves in our own land — proud 

masters, tell us why ? 



The German burgher and his men, brother 

with brothers live, 
While toil must wait without your gate 

what gracious crusts you give, 
Long in your sight, for our own right we' 

bent, and still we bend ; — 
Why did we bow? why do we now 

proud masters, this must end. 



s've 



Perish the past — a generous land is this fair 

land of ours, 
And enmity may no man see between itB 

Towns and Towers. 
Come, join our bands — here take our hands 

— now shame on him that lingers, 
Merchant or Peer, you have no fear from 

labor's blistered fingers. 
Come, join at last — perish the past — its trai 

tors, its seceders — 
Proud names and old, frank hearts and bolt* t 

come join and be our Leaders ; 
But know, ye lords, that be your fcword* 

with us or with our Wronger, 
Heaven be our guide, for we shall bide this 

lot of shame no longer J 



THE PATRIOT'S BRIDE. 

O ! give me back that royal dream 

My fancy wrought, 
When I have seen your sunny eyes 
Grow moist with thought ; 
And fondly hoped, dear Love, your heart 
from mine 

Its spell had caught ; 
And laid me down to dream that dream 
divine, 

But true methought, 
Of how my life's long task would be, to 
make yours blessed as it ought. 

To learn to love sweet Nature more 
For your sweet sake, 

To watch with you — dear friend, with , 
you!— 

Its wonders break j 



POEMS OF CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. 



The sparkling Spring in that bright face 
to see 

Its mirror make — 
On summer morns to hear the sweet 
birds sing 

By linn and lake ; 
And know your voice, your magic voice, 
could still a grander musio wake I 

On some old shell-strewn rock to sit 

In Autumn eves, 
Where gray Killiney cools the torrid air 

Hot Autumn weaves : 
Or by that Holy Well in mountain lone, 

Where Faith believes 
(Fain would I believe) its secret, darling 
wish 

True love achieves. 
Yet, O ! its Saint was not more pure than 
she to whom my fond heart cleaves. 

T© see the dank mid-winter night 
Pass like a noon, 
Sultry with thought from minds that teem'd, 
And glow'd like June : 
Whereto would pass in sculp'd and pic- 
tured train 

Art's magic boon ; 
And Music thrill with many a haughty 
strain. 

And dear old tune, 

Till hearts grew sad to hear the destined 

hour to part had come so soon. 

To wake the old weird world that 
sleeps 

In Irish lore ; 
The strains sweet foreign Spenser sung 

By Mulla's shore ; 
Dear Curran's airy thoughts, like purple 
birds 

That shine and soar; 
Tone's fiery hopes, and all the deathless 
vows 

That Grattan swore ; 
fhe songs that once our own dear Davis 
sung — ah, me ! to sing no more. 

To search with mother-love the gifts 
Our land can boast — 



Soft Erna's isles, Neagh's wooded slopes, 

Clare's iron coast ; 
Kildare, whose legions gray our bosom 
stir 

With fay and ghost ; 
Gray Mourne, green Antrim, purple 
Glenmalur — 

Lene's fairy host ; 
With raids to many a foreign land to learn 
to love dear Ireland most. 

And all those proud old victor-fields 

We thrill to name ; 
Whose memories are the stars that 
light 

Long nights of shame ; 
The Cairn, the Dun, the Rath, the 
Tower, the Keep, 

That still proclaim 
In chronicles of clay and stone, how 
true, how deep, 

Was Eire's fame. 
O ! we shall see them all, with her, that dear, 
dear friend we two have loved the same. 

Yet ah ! how truer, tend'rer still 

Methought did seem 
That scene of tranquil joy, that happy 
home, 

By Dodder's stream ; 
The morning smile, that grew a fixed 
star, 

With love-lit beam, 
The ringing laugh, lock'd hands, and 
all the far 

And shining stream 
Of daily love, that made our daily life diviner 
than a dream. 

For still to me, dear Friend, dear 
Love, 

Or both — dear Wife, 
Your image comes with serious thoughts, 

But tender, rife ; 
No idle plaything to caress or chide 

In sport or strife ; 
But my best chosen friend, companion, 
guide, 

To walk through life, 
Link'd hand in hand, two equal, loving 
friends, true husband and true wife. 



POEMS OF CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. 



SWEET SIBYL. 

Mr Love is as fresh as the morning sky, 
My Love is as soft as the summer air, 
My Love is as true as the Saints on high, 
And never was saint so fair ! 

O, glad is my heart when I name her 

name, 

For it sounds like a song to me — 

I'll love you, it sings, nor heed their 

blame, 

For you love me, Astor Machree 1 

Sweet Sibyl ! sweet Sibyl 1 my heart is wild 
With the fairy spell that her eyes have 
lit; 
I Bit in a dream where my Love has smiled — 
I kiss where her name is writ ! 

O, darling, I fly like a dreamy boy ; 
The toil that is joy to the strong 
and true, 
The life that the brave for their land 
employ, 
I squander in dreams of you. 

The face of my Love has the changeful light 
That gladdens the sparkling sky of spring ; 
The voice of my Love is a strange delight, 
As when birds in the May-time sing. 

O, hope of my heart ! O, light of my 
life! 
O, come to me, darling, with peace 
and rest ! 
Oj come like the Summer, my own 
sweet wife, 
To your home in my longing breast ! 

Be bless'd with the home sweet Sibyl will 
sway, 
With the glance of her soft and queenly 
eyes ; 
O ! happy the love young Sibyl will pay 
With the breath of her tender sighs. 

That home is the hope of my waking 
dreams — 
That love fills my eye with pride — 
There's light in their glance, there's 
joy in their beams, 
When I think of my own young 
bride. 



A LAY SERMON. 

Brother, do you love your brother ? 

Brother, are you all you seem ? 
Do you live for more than living ? 

Has your Life a law, and scheme ? 
Are you prompt to bear its duties, 

As a brave man may beseem ? 

Brother, shun the mist exhaling 
From the fen of pride and doubt, 

Neither seek the house of bondage 
Walling straiten'd souls about ; 

Bats ! who from their narrow spy-hole, 
Cannot see a world without. 

Anchor in no stagnant shallow — 
Trust the wide and wondrous sea, 

Where the tides are fresh forever, 
And the mighty currents free ; 

There, perchance, O ! young Columbu* 
Your New World of truth may be. 

Favor wjll not make deserving — 
(Can the sunshine brighten clay?) 

Slowly must it grow to blossom, 
Fed by labor and delay, 

And the fairest bud of promise 
Bears the taint of quick decay. 

You must strive for better guerdons j 
Strive to be the thing you'd seem ; 

Be the thing that God hath made you, 
Channel for no borrow'd stream ; 

Me hath lent you mind and conscience ; 
See you travel in their beam ! 

See you scale life's misty highlands 
By this light of living truth ! 

And with bosom braced for labor, 
Breast them in your manly youth ; 

So when age and care have found yon, 
Shall your downward path be smooth. 

Fear not, on that rugged highway, 
Life may want its lawful zest : 

Sunny glens are in the mountain, 
Where the weary feet may rest, 

Cool'd in streams that gush forever 
From a loving mother's breast. 



POEMS OF CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. 



" Simple heart and simple pleasures," 
So they write life's golden rule ; 

Honor won by supple baseness, 
State that crowns a canker'd fool, 

Gleam as gleam the gold and purple 
On a hot and rancid pool. 

Wear no show of wit or science, 

But the gems you've won, and weigh'd ; 

Thefts, like ivy on a ruin, 

Make the rifts they seem to shade : 

Are you not a thief and beggar 
In the rarest spoils array'd ? 

Shadows deck a sunny landscape, 
Making brighter all the bright : 

So, my brother ! care and danger 
On a loving nature light, 

Bringing all its latent beauties 
Out upon the common sight. 

Love the things that God created, 
Make your brother's need your care ; 

Scorn and hate repel God's blessings, 
But where love is, they are there ; 

As the moonbeams light the waters, 
Leaving rock and sand-bank bare. 

Thus, my brother, grow and flourish, 

Fearing none and loving all ; 
For the true man needs no patron, ' 

He shall climb and never crawl : 
Two things fashion their own channel — 

The strong man and the waterfall. 



O'DONNELL AND THE FAIR FITZ- 
GERALD. 

A fawn that flies with sudden spring, 

A wild-bird fluttering on the wing, 

A passing gleam of April sun, 

She flash'd upon me, and was gone ! 

No chance did that dear face restore, 

Nor then — nor now — nor evermore. 

But sure, I see her in my dreams, 

With eyes where love's first dawning beams ; 



And tones, like Irish Music, say — 
" Tou ask to love me, and you may ;" 
And so I know she will be mine, 
That rose of -princely Geraldine. 



A voice that thrills with modest doubt, 
A tale of love can ill pour out ; 
But, oh ! when love wore manly guise, 
And warrior feats woke woman's sighs — 
With Irish sword, on Irish soil, 
I might have won that kingly spoil. 
But then, perchance, the Desmond race 
Had deem'd to mate with mine disgrace ; 
For mine's that strain of native blood 
That last the Norman lance withstood ; 
And still when mountain war was waged 
Their sparths among the Normans raged, 
And burst through many a serried line 
Of Lacy, Burke, and Geraldine. 

And yet methinks in battle press, 
My love, I could not love you less ; 
For, oh ! 'twere sweet brave deeds to do 
For our old, sainted land, and you ! 
To sweep a storm, through Barrensmore, 
With Docwra's scatter'd ranks before, 
Like chaff upon our northern blast ; 
Nor rest till Bann's broad wares k 

pass'd, 
Till Inbhar sees our flashing line, 
Till Darhar's lordly towers are mine, 
And backward borne, as seal and sign. 
The fairest maid of Geraldine. 



But, Holy Bride, 1 how sweeter still 
A hunted chief on Faughart hill, 
With all the raging Pale behind, 
So sweet, so strange a foe to find ! 
Soft love to plant where terror sprung, 
With honey speech of Irish tongue ; 
Again to dare Clan-Geralt's swords 
For hope of some sweet, stolen words. 
Till many a danger pass'd and gone, 
My suit has sped, my Bride is won — 
's proud Clan-Connell's Queen, 



and 



Young Geraldine, of Geraldine. 



POEMS OF CHARLES GAVAN DFFFY. 






But sure that time is dead and gone 
When worth a'one such love had won, 
For hearts are cold, and hands are bought, 
And faith, and lore, and love are naught ? 
Ah ! trust me, no ! The pure and true 
The genial past may still renew ; 
Still love as then ; and still no less 
Strong hearts ihall snatch a brave success 



And to their end right onward go, 

As Erna's tide to Assaroe.' 

Oh ! Saints may strive for Martyr's crown. 

And warriors watch by leaguer'd town, 

But poor is all their toil to mine, 

'Till won's my Bride — my Geraldine ! 









POEMS OF WILLIAM CARLETON. 



SIR TURLOTTGH, OR THE CHURCH- 
YARD BRIDE.' 

The bride she bound her golden hair — 

Killeevy, O Killeevy ! 
And her step was light as the breezy air 
When it bends the morning flowers so fair, 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

And oh, but her eyes they danced so bright, 

Killeevy, O Killeevy ! 
As she long'd for the dawn of to-morrow's 

light, 
Her bridal vows of love to plight, 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 



1 Li the churchyard of Erigle Truagh, In the barony of Tru- 
»gh, county Monaghan, there is said to be a Spirit which 
appears to persons whose families are there Interred. Its 
appearance, which Is generally made in the following manner, 
Is uniformly fatal, being an omen of death to those who are 
so unhappy as to meet with it. When a funeral takes place, 
It watches the person who remains last in the graveyard, over 
whom it possesses a fascinating influence. If the loit»rer be a 
young man, it takes the shape of a beautiful female, Inspires 
him with a charmed passion, and exacts a promise to meet in 
the churchyard on a month from that day ; this promise is 
■ealed by a kiss, which communicates a deadly taint to the In- 
dividual who receives it. It then disappears, and no sooner 
does the young man quit the churchyard, than he remembers 
the history of the spectre— which is well known in the parish 
—sinks into despair, dies, and is buried in the place of 
appointment on the day when the promise was to have been 
fulfilled. If, on the contrary, it appears to a female, it as- 
sumes the form cf a young man of exceeding elegance and 
beauty. Some years ago I was shown the grave of a young 
person about eighteen years of age, who was said to have fallen 
a victim to it : and it is not more than ten months since a 
man in the same parish declared that he gave the promise and 
the fatal kiss, and consequently looked upon himself as lost. 
He took a fever, died, and was buried on the day appointed 
for the meeting, which was exactly a month from that of the 
Interview. There are several cases of the same kind men- 
tioned, but the two now alluded to are the only ones that came 
within my personal knowledge. It appears, however, that the 
epectre does not confine its operations to the churchyard, as 
there have been instances mentioned cf its appearance at 
weddings and dances, where it never failed to secure its vic- 
tims by dancing them into p\ enritic fevers. I am unable to say 
whether this is a strictly local superstition, or whether it is 
considered peculiar to other churchyards in Ireland, or else- 
where. In its female shape it somewhat resembles the Bile 
maids of Scandinavia ; but I am acquainted with no account 



The bridegroom is come with youthful brow, 

Killeevy, O Killeevy ! 
To receive from his Eva her virgin vow ; 
" Why tarries the bride of my bosom now !" 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

A cry ! a cry ! — 'twas her maidens spoke, 

Killeevy, O Killeevy ! 
"Your bride is asleep — she has not awoke; 
And the sleep she sleeps will be never broke," 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

Sir Turlough sank down with a heavy moan, 

Killeevy, O Killeevy 1 
And his cheek became like the marble stone — 
" Oh, the pulse of my heart is forever gone 1" 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

The keen' is loud, it comes again, 

Killeevy, O Killeevy ! 
And rises sad from the funeral-train, 
As in sorrow it winds along the plain, 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 



of fairies or apparitions In which the sex is said to be changed, 
except in that of the devil himself. The country people say 
it is Death. 

J The Irish cry, or wailing for the dead ; properly written 
Cadne, and pronounced as if written keen. Speaking of this 
practice, which still prevails in many parts of Ireland, the Rev. 
A. Koss, rector of Dungiven, in his statistical survey of that 
parish, observes that " however it may offend the Judgment 
or shock our present refinement, its affecting cadences will 
continue to find admirers wherever what is truly sad and plain- 
tive can be relished or understood." It is also thus noticed in 
the "Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry :"—" I have 
often, indeed always, felt that there is something exceedingly 
touching in the IriBh cry ; in fact, that it breathes the very 
spirit of wild and natural sorrow. The Irish peasantry, 
whenever a death takes place, are exceedingly happy in seiz- 
ing upon any contingent circumstances that may occur, and 
making them subservient to the excitement of grief for the de- 
parted,, or the exaltation and praise of his character and vir- 
tues. My entrance was a proof of this ; for I bad scarcely 
advanced to the middle of the floor, when my intimacy with 
the deceased, our boyish sports, and even our quarrels, were 
adverted to with a natural eloquence and pathos, that, in splta 
of my firmness, occasioned me to feel the prevailing sorrow 
They spoke, or chanted, mournfully, in Irish : but the lab* 



POEMS OF WILLIAM CARLETON. 



And oh, but the plumes of while were fair, 

Killeevy, O Killeevy ! 
When they flutter'd all mournful in the air, 
As rose the hymn of the requiem prayer, 1 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

There is a voice that hut one can hear, 

Killeevy, O Killeevy ! 
And it softly pours from behind the bier, 
Its note of death on Sir Turlpugh's ear, 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

The keen is loud, but that voice is low, 

Killeevy, O Killeevy ! 
And it sings its song of sorrow slow, 
And names young Turlough's name with woe, 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

Now the grave is closed, and the mass is said, 

Killeevy, O Killeevy ! 
And the bride she sleeps in her lonely bed, 
The fairest corpse among the dead, 3 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

The wreaths of virgin-white are laid, 

Killeevy, O Killeevy ! 
By virgin hands, o'er the spotless maid ; 
And the flowers are strewn, but they soon 
will fade 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

" Oh ! go not yet — -not yet away, 

Killeevy, O Killeevy ! 
Let us feel that life is near our clay," 
The long-departed seem to say, 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 



stance of what they said was as follows :— ' O, 
you're lying low this mornin* of sorrow I lying low are you, 
and does not know who it is (alluding to me) that is standin' 
over you, weepin' for the days you've spent together in your 
youth I It's yourself, amshta agus asthore. ?nachree, (the pulse 
and beloved of my heart,) that would stretch out the right hand 
warmly to welcome him to the place of his birth, where you 
had both been so often happy about the green hills and valleys 
with each other !' They then passed on to an enumeration of his 
virtues as a father, a husband, sou, and brother— specified his 
worth as he stood related to society in general, and his kind- 
ness as a neighbor and a friend." 

1 It is usual in the North of Ireland to celebrate mass for 
the dead in some green field between the house in which the 
deceased lived and the graveyard. For this the shelter of a 
grove is usually selected, and the appearance of the ceremony 
is highly picturesque and solemn. 

a Another expression peculiarly Irish, "What a purty 
corpse 1" — " How well she becomes death 1" " You wouldn't 
meet a purtier corpse of a summer's day 1" "She bears the 
change well !" are all phrases quite common in -\ases of death 
among the peasantry. 



But the tramp and the voices of life are 
gone, 

Killeevy, O Killeevy 
And beneath each cold forgotten stone, 
The mouldering dead sleep all alone, 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

But who is he who lingereth yet ? 

Killeevy, O Killeevy ! 
The fresh green sod with his tears is wet, 
And his heart in the bridal grave is set, 

By the bonnie green woods of Killepvy. 

Oh, who but Sir Turlough, the young and 
brave, 

Killeevy, O Killeevy ! 
Should bend him o'er that bridal grave, 
And to his death-bound Eva rave, 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy ? 

"Weep not — weep not," said a lady fair, 

Killeevy, Killeevy ! 
" Should youth and valor thus despair, 
And pour their vows to the empty air ?" 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

There's charmed music upon her tongue, 

Killeevy, O Killeevy ! 
Such beauty, bright, and warm, and young, 
Was never seen the maids among, 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

A laughing light, a tender grace, 

Killeevy, O Killeevy ! 
Sparkled in beauty around her face, 
That grief from mortal heart might c"hase, 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

" The maid for whom thy salt tears fall, 

Killeevy, O Killeevy ! 
Thy grief or love can ne'er recall ; 
She rests beneath that grassy pall, 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

" My heart it strangely cleaves to thee, 

Killeevy, Killeevy ! 
And now that thy plighted love is free, 
Give its unbroken pledge to me, 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy." 



POEMS OF WILLIAM CARLETON. 



The charm is strong upon Turlough's eye, 

Killeevy, O Killeevy ! 
His faithless tears are already dry, 
And his yielding heart has ceased to sigh, 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

u To thee," the charmed chief replied, 

Killeevy, O Killeevy ! 
" I pledge that love o'er my buried bride ; 
Oh ! come, and in Turlough's hall abide," 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

Again the funeral voice came o'er 

Killeevy, O Killeevy ! 
The passing breeze, as it wail'd before, 
And streams of mournful music bore, 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

** If I to thy youthful heart am dear, 

Killeevy, O Killeevy ! 
One month from hence thou wilt meet me 

here, 
Where lay thy bridal, Eva's bier," 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

He press'd her lips as the words were spoken, 

Killeevy, O Killeevy ! 
And his banshee's 1 wail — now far and 

broken — 
Murmur'd " Death," as he gave the token, 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

" Adieu ! adieu !" said this lady bright, 

Killeevy, O Killeevy ! 
And she slowly pass'd like a thing of light 
Or a morning cloud from Sir Turlough's sight, 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

Now Sir Turlough has death in every vein, 

Killeevy, O Killeevy ! 
And there's fear and grief o'er his wide 

domain, 
And gold for those who will calm his brain, 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 



» "Woman of the hill."— Treating of the superstitions of 
the Irish, Miss Balfonr says, " What rank the banshee holds in 
the scale of spiritual beings, it is not easy to determine ; but 
her favorite occupation seems to be that of fortelling the death 
of the different branches of the families over which she pre- 
sided, by the most plaintive cries. Every family bad formerly 
Us banshee, but the belief in her existence is now fast fading 
away, and in a few more years 6he will only be remembered 
in the storied records of her marvellous doings in days long 
tince gone by." 



" Come haste thee, leech, right swiftly ride, 

Killeevy, O Killeevy ! 
Sir Turlough the brave, Green Truagha's 

pride, 
Has pledged his love to the churchyard 
bride," 
By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

The leech groan'd loud, " Come tell me this, 

Killeevy, O Killeevy ! 
By all thy hopes of weal and bliss, 
Has Sir Turlough given the fatal kiss ?" 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

" The banshee's cry is loud and long, 

Killeevy, O Killeevy ! 
At eve she weeps her funeral-song, 
And it floats on the twilight breeze along," 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

" Then the fatal kiss is given ; — the last 

Killeevy, O Killeevy ! 
Of Turlough's race and name is past, 
His doom is seal'd, his die is cast," 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

" Leech, say not that thy skill is vain ; 

Killeevy, O Killeevy ! 
Oh, calm the power of his frenzied brain, 
And half his lands thou shalt retain," 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

The leech has fail'd, and the hoary priest, 

Killeevy, O Killeevy ! 
With pious shrift his soul released, 
And the smoke is high of his funeral-feast, 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 



The shanachies now are assembled all 

Killeevy, O Killeevy ! 
And the songs of praise in Sir Turlough's hall, 
To the sorrowing harp's dark music fall, 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 

And there is trophy, banner, and plume, 

Killeevy, O Killeevy I 
And the pomp of death, with its darkest 

gloom, 
O'ershadows the Irish chieftain's tomb, 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 



POEMS OF WILLIAM CARLETON. 



Hie month is closed, and Green Troagha's 
pride, 

Killeevy, O Killeevy ! 
Is married to death — and, side by side, 
He slnmbers now with his churchyard bride, 

By the bonnie green woods of Killeevy. 



A SIGH FOR KNOCKMANY. 

Take, proud ambition, take thy fill 

Of pleasure* won through toil or crime ; 
Go, learning, climb thy rugged hill, 

And give thy name to future time ■ 
Philosophy, be keen to see 

Whate'er is just, or false, or vain, 
Take each thy meed, but, oh ! give me 

To range my mountain glens again. 

Pore was the breeze that fann'd my cheek, 
As o'er Knockmany's brow I went • 



When every lonely, dell could speak 

In airy music, vision sent : 
False world, I hate thy cares and thee, 

I hate the treacherous haunts of men ; 
Give back my early heart to me, 

Give back to me my mountain gler 

How light my youthful visions shone, 

When spann'd by fancy's radiant form 1 
But now her glittering bow is gone, 

And leaves me but the cloud and storm. 
With wasted form, and cheek all pale — 

With heart long scarr'd by grief and pain ,. 
Dunroe, I'll seek thy native gale, 

I'll tread my mountain glens again. 

Thy breeze once.more may fan my blood, 

Thy valleys all are lovely still ; 
And I may stand, where oft I stood, 

In lonely musings on thy hill. 
But ah ! the spell is gone ; — no art, 

In crowded town or native plain, 
Can teach a crush'd and breaking heart 

To pipe the song of youth again. 



POEMS OF EDWARD WALSH. 



A MUNSTER KEEN. 

On Monday morning, the flowers were gayly 
springing, 

The skylark's hymn in middle air was sing- 
ing, 

When, grief of griefs ! my wedded husband 
left me, 

And since that hour of hope and health be- 
reft me. 

Ulla gulla, gulla g'one ! &o.' 

Above the board, where thou art low re- 
clining, 

Have parish priests and horsemen high been 
dining, 

And wine and usquebaugh, while they were 
able, 

They quafF'd with thee — the soul of all the 
table. 

Ulla gulla, gulla g'one ! &c. 

Why didst thou die ? Could wedded wife 

adore thee 
With purer love than that my bosom bore 

thee? 
Thy children's cheeks were peaches ripe and 

mellow, 
And threads of gold, their tresses long and 

yellow. 

Ulla gulla, gulla g'one ! &c. 

In vain for me are pregnant heifers lowing ; 
In vain for me are yellow harvests growing ; 



Or thy nine gifts of love in beauty bloom- 
ing- 
Tears blind my eyes, and grief my heart's 
consuming ! 

Ulia gulla, gulla g'one ! &c. 

Pity her plaints whose wailing voice is bro- 
ken, 

Whose finger holds our early wedding token, 

The torrents of whose tears have drain'd 
their fountain, 

Whose piled -up grief on grief is past re- 
counting. 

Ulla gulla, gulla g'one ! &c. 

I still might hope, did I not thus behold thee, 
That high Knockferin's airy peak might hold 

thee, 
Or Crohan's fairy halls, or Corrin's towers, 
Or Lene's bright caves, or Cleana's bowers.* 
Ulla gulla, gulla g'one ! &c. 

But, O ! my black despair, when thou wert 

dying ! 
O'er thee no tear was wept, no heart was 

sighing — 
No breath of prayer did waft thy soul to 

glory; 
But lonely thou didst lie, all maim'd and 

gory! 

Ulla gulla, gulla g'one ! &c. 

O ! may your dove-like soul, on whitest 
pinions, 

Pursue her upward flight to God's domin- 
ions, 

■ PlaceB celebrated in fairy topography. 






POEMS OF EDWARD WALSH. 



Where saints' and martyrs' hands shall gifts 

provide thee — 
And, O, my grief i that I am not beside 

thee ! 

Ulla gulla, gulla g'one ! &c. 



BATTLE OF CREDRAK (1257.) 



[A brilliant battle was fought by Geoffrey O'Donnell, Lord 
Cf Tirconnell, against the Lord Justice of Ireland, Maurice 
Fitzgerald, and the English of Connanght, at Credran Cilk, 
Eoseede, in the territory of Carburry, north of Sligo, in de- 
fence of his principality. A fierce and terrible conflict took 
place, in which bodies were hacked, heroes disabled, and the 
strength of both sides exhausted. The men of Tirconnell 
maintained their ground, and completely overthrew the Eng- 



ing encountered in the flght Maurice Fitzgerald, in single 
eombat, in which they mortally wounded each other.— inmate 
qf the Four Masters.] 

Fbom the glens of his fathers O'Donnell 

comes forth, 
With all Cinel-Conall, 1 fierce septs of the 

North— 
O'Boyle and O'Daly, O'Dugan, and they 
That own, by the wild waves, O'Doherty's 

sway. 

Clan Connor, brave sons of the diadem'd 

Niall, 
Has pour'd the tall clansmen from mountain 

and vale — 
M'Sweeny's sharp axes, to battle oft bore, 
Flash bright in the sunlight by high Duna- 

more. 

Through Inis-Mac-Durin,* througn Derry's 

dark brakes, 
Glentocher of tempests, Slieve-snacht of the 

lakes, 
Bundoran of dark spells, Loch-Swilly's rich 

glen, 
The red deer rush wild at the war-shout of 

men ! 



1 Cinel-Conall.— The descendants of Conall-Gnlban, the son 
of Niall of the Nine Hostages, Monarch of Ireland in the fourth 
•century. The principality was named Tir Chonaile, or Tyr- 
«onuell, which included the county Donegal, and its chiefs 
•were the O'Donnells. 

« Districts in Donegal. 



O! why through Tir-Conall, from Cuil- 

dubh's dark steep, 
To SamerV green border the fierce masses 

sweep, 
Living torrents o'er-leaping their own river 

shore, 
In the red sea of battle to mingle their 

roar? 

Stretch thy vision far southward, and seek 

for reply 
Where blaze of the hamlets glares red on 

the sky — 
Where the shrieks of the hopeless rise high 

to their God — 
Where the foot of the Sassenach spoiler has 

trod! 

Sweeping on like a tempest, the Gall-Oglach 4 

stern 
Contends for the van with the swift-footed 

kern — 
There's blood for that burning, and joy for 

that wail — 
The avenger is hot on the spoiler's red 

trail ! 

The Saxon hath gathered on Credran's far 

heights, 
His groves of long lances, the flower of his 

knights — 
His awful cross-bowmen, whose long iron 

hail 
Finds through Cota' and Sciath, the bare 

heart of the Gael ! 

The long lance is brittle — the mailed ranks 
reel 

Where the Gall-Oglach's axe hews the har- 
ness of steely'' 

And truer to i + „ aim in the breast of a foe- 
ma-, 

Is the pike of a Kern than the shaft of a 
bowman. 



3 Same?-.— The ancient name of Loch Earne. 

4 Oall-Oglach or Gallowglass.— The heavy-armed foot Bol- 
Uer. Kern or Cei/hernach.—Tbe light-armed soldier. 

6 Cota.— The saffron-dyed 6hirt of the kern, consisting of 
many yards of yellow linen thickly plaited. SciatA.— Th» 
wicker shield, as its name imports. 






POEMS OF EDWARD WALSH. 



701 



One prayer to St. Columb 1 — the battle-steel 



The tide of fierce conflict tumultuousiy 

dashes ; 
Surging onward, high -heaving its billow of 

blood, 
While war-shout aDd death-groan swell high 

o'er the flood ! 

As meets the wild billows the deep-centred 

rock, 
Met glorious Clan-Conall the fierce Saxon's. 

shock ; 
As the wrath of the clouds flash'd the axe 

of Clan-Conell, 
Till the Saxon lay strewn 'neath the might 

of O'Donnell ! 

One warrior alone holds the wide bloody 
field, 

With barbed black charger and long lance 
and shield — 

Grim, savage, and gory he meets their ad- 
vance, 

His broad shield uplifting, and couching his 
lance. 

Then forth to the van of that fierce rushing 

throng 
Rode a chieftain of tall spear and battle-axe 

strong ; 
His Bracca* and geochal, and eoehaPs red 

fold, 
And war-horse's housings, were radiant in 

gold ! 

Say who is this chief sparring forth to the 

fray, 
The wave of whose spear holds yon armed 

array ? 



> St. Cohan, or Colum-CUle, the dove of the Church.— The 
patron saint of Tyrconnell, descended from Conall Gnlban. 

* Braeca.— So called, from being striped with various colors, 
was the tight-fitting Trnis. It covered the ankles, legs, and 
thighs, rising as high as the loins, and fitted so close to the 
limbs as to discover every muscle and motion of the parts 
which it covered. Geochal.— The jacket made of gilded 
leather, and which was sometimes embroidered with silk. 
Cochal.—L sort of cloak with a large hanging collar of differ- 
ent colors This garment reached to the middle of the thigh, 
and was fringed with a border like shagged hair, and being 
brought over the shoulders, was fastened on the breast by a 
clasp, bnckle, or brooch of silver or gold. In battle, they 
wrapped the Cochal several times round the left arm as a 
shield.- - WaOur's Drees and Armor of the Irish. 



And he who stands scorning the Uhousandf 

that sweep, 
An army of wolves over shepherdless sheep ? 

The shield of his nation, brave Geoffrey 
O'Donnell 

(Clar-Fodhla's firm prop is the proud race 
ofConall)" 

And Maurice Fitzgerald, the scorner of dan- 
ger. 

The scourge of the Gael, and the strength 
of the stranger. 

The launch'd spear hath torn through target 

and mail — 
The couch'd lance hath borne to his crupper 

the Gael— 
The steeds driven backward all helplessly 

reel; 
But the lance that lies broken hath blood on 

its steel I 

And now, fierce O'Donnell, thy battle-axe 

wield — 
The broadsword is shiver'd, and cloven the 

shield, 
The keen steel sweeps griding through proud 

crest and crown — 
Clar-Fodhla hath triumph'd — the Saxon is 

down! 



MARGREAD NI CHEALLEADH. 



[This ballad is founded on the story of Daniel O'Keeffe, an 
onUaw, famous in the traditions of the County of Cork, where 
his name is still associated with several localities. It is re- 
lated that O'Keeffe's beautiful mistress, Margaret Kelly (Mair- 
gread ni Chealleadh), tempted by a large reward, undertook 
to deliver him into the hands of the English soldiers ; but 
O'Keeffe having discovered in her possession a document re- 
vealing her perfidy, in a frenzy of indignation stabbed her to 
the heart with his skian. He lived in the time of William m.,. 
and is represented to have been a gentleman and a poet.] 

At the dance in the village 

Thy white foot was fleetest ; -| 

Thy voice 'mid the concert 

Of maidens was sweetest ; 



» This is the translation of the first line of a poem of two 
hundred and forty-eight verses, written by Pirgai og Mac-ao- 
Bhaird on Dominick O'Donnell, in the year 1655. The origi- 
nal line Is— 

"Galbble Fodhla fail ChonaUl."— O'BeiUy'i Irith WrlUre. 






702 



POEMS OF EDWARD WALSH. 



The swell of thy white breast 
Made rich lovers follow ; 
And thy raven hair bound them, 
Young Mairgread ni Chealleadh. 

Thy neck was, lost maid ! 
Than the ceanaban 1 whiter; 
And the glow of thy cheek 
Than the monadan' brighter; 
But Death's chain hath bound thee, 
Thine eye's glazed and hollow 
That shone like a Sun-burst, 
Young Mairgread ni Chealleadh. 

No more shall mine ear drink 

Thy melody swelling ; 

Nor thy beamy eye brighten 

The outlaw's dark dwelling; 

Or thy soft heaving bosom 

My destiny hallow, 

When thine arms twine around me, 

Young Mairgread ni Chealleadh. 

The moss couch I brought thee 
To-day from the mountain, 
Has drank the last drop 
Of thy young heart's red fountain ; 
For this good skian beside me 
Struck deep and rung hollow 
In thy bosom of treason, 
Young Mairgread ni Chealleadh. 

With strings of rich pearls 
Thy white neck was laden, 
And thy fingers with spoils 
Of the Sassenach maiden : 
Such rich silks enrobed not 
The proud dames of Mallow — 
Such pure gold they wore not 
As Mairgread ni Chealleadh. 

Alas ! that my loved one 
Her outlaw would injure — 
Alas ! that he e'er proved 
Her treason's avenger ! 



1 A plant found In bogs, tbc top of which bears a substance 
resembling cotton, and as white as Bnow. Pronounced Cfin- 
*vfin. 

1 The monadan is a red berry that Is found on wild marshr 
mountains. It grows on an humble creeping plant. 



That this right hand should make thee 
A bed cold and hollow, 
When in Death's sleep it laid thee, 
Young Mairgread ni Chealleadh! 

And while to this lone cave 
My deep grief I'm venting, 
The Saxon's keen bandog 
My footsteps is scenting : 
But true men await me 
Afar in Duhallow. 
Farewell, cave of slaughter, 
And Mairgread ni Chealleadh. 



O'DONOVAN'S DAUGHTER. 

One midsummer's eve, when the Bel-fires 

were lighted, 
And the bag-piper's tone call'd the maidens 

delighted, 
I join'd a gay group by the Araglin's water, 
And danced till the dawn with O'Donovan's 

Daughter. 

Have you seen the ripe monadan glisten in 
Kerry? 

Have you mark'd on the Galteys the black 
whortle-berry, 

Or ceanaban wave by the wells of Black- 
water ? — 

They're the cheek, eye, and neck of O'Dono- 
van's Daughter ! 

Have you seen a gay kidling on Claragh'a 
round mountain ? 

The swan's arching glory on Sheeling's blue 
fountain ? 

Heard a weird woman chant what the fairy 
choir taught her ? 

They've the step, grace, and tone of O'Dono- 
van's Daughter ! 

Have you mark'd in its flight the black wing 

of the raven ? 
The rose-buds that breathe in the 

breeze waven ? 



POEMS OF EDWARD WALSH. 



"The pearls that lie hid under Lene's magic 

water ? 
They're the teeth, lip, and hair of O'Dono- 

van's Daughter 1 

Ere the Bel-fire was dimm'd, or the dancers 
departed, 

I taught her a song of some maid broken- 
hearted : 

And that group, and that dance, and that 
love-song I taught her 

Haunt my slumbers at night with O'Dono- 
van's Daughter. 

God grant 'tis no fay from Cnoc-Firinn that 

wooes me, 
God grant 'tis not Cliodhna the queen that 

pursues me, 
That my soul lost and lone has no witchery 

wrought her, 
While I dream of dark groves and O'Dono- 

van's Daughter ! 

If, spell-bound, I pine with an airy disorder, 
Saint Gobnate has sway over Musgry's wide 

border ; 
She'll scare from my couch, when with prayer 

I've besought her, 
That bright airy sprite like O'Donovan's 

Daughter. 



BRIGHIDrN BAN" MO STORE. 



[Brighidin ban mo star is in English fair young bride, < 
Bridget my treasure. The proper sonnd of this phrase is n< 
easily found by the mere English-speaking Irish. It is as 
written, " Bree-dheen-bawn-mii-sthore" The proper nan 
Brighit, or Bride, signifies a fiery dart, and was the name < 
he goddess of poetry in the Pagan days of Ireland.] 



I am a wand'ring minstrel man, 

And Love my only theme, 
I've stray'd beside the pleasant Bann, 

And eke the Shannon's stream ; 
I've piped and play'd to wife and maid 

By Barrow, Suir, and Nore, 
But never met a maiden yet 

Like Brighidin Ban Mo Store. 



My girl hath ringlets rich and rare, 

By Nature's fingers wove — 
Loch-Carra's swan is not so fair 

As is her breast of Love ; 
And when she moves, in Sunday sheen, 

Beyond our cottage door, 
I'd scorn the high-born Saxon queen 

For Brighidin Ban Mo Store. 

It is not that thy smile is sweet, 

And soft thy voice of song — 
It is not that thou fleest to meet 

My comings lone and long ; 
But that doth rest beneath thy breast 

A heart of purest core, 
Whose pulse is known to me alone, 

My Brighidin Ban Mo Store. 



MO CRAOIBHIN CNO.* 

My heart is far from Liffey's tide 

And Dublin town ; 
It strays beyond the Southern side 

OfCnoc-Maol-Donn," 
Where Cappoquin' hath woodlands green, 

Where Amhan-MhorV waters flow, 
Where dwells unsung, unsought, unseen, 

Mo craoibhin cno I 
Low clustering in her leafy screen, 

Mo craoibhin cno ! 

The high-bred dames of Dublin town 

Are rich and fair, 
With wavy plume, and silken gown, 

And stately air ; 
Can plumes compare thy dark brown hair? 
Can silks thv neck of snow ? 



1 Mo craoibhin cno literally means my cluster of nuts ; but it 
figuratively signifies my nut-brown maid. It is pronounced 
Ma Creevin Kno. 

* Cnoc-maol Bonn— The Brown bare Mil. A lofty mountain 
between the county of Tipperary and that of Waterford, com- 
manding a glorious prospect of unrivalled scenery. 

* Cappoquin. A romantically situated town on the Black- 
water, in the county of Waterford. The Irish name dcnoteB 
the head of the tribe of Conn. 

' Amhan-mhor—The Great River. The Blackwater, which 
flows into the sea at YoughaL The IriBh, name is ottered in 
two sounds Oan-Vore. 



704 



POEMS OF EDWARD WALSH. 



Or measured pace, ttiine artless grace, 

Mo craoibhin cno ! 
When harebells scarcely show thy trace, 

Mo craoibhin cno ! 



I've heard the songs by Liffey's wave 

That maidens sung — 
They sung their land the Saxon's slave, 

In Saxon tongue — 
Oh ! bring me here that Gaelic dear 

Which cursed the Saxon foe, 
When thou didst charm my raptured ear, 

Mo craoibhin cno I 
And none but God's good angels near, 

Mo craoibhin cno I 



IV e wander'd by the rolling Lee ! 

And Lene's green bowers — 
I've seen the Shannon's wide-spread sea, 

And Limerick's towers— 
And Liffey's tide, where halls of pride 

Frown o'er the flood below ; 
My wild heart strays to Amhan-mhor's side, 

Mo craoibhin cno ! 
With love and thee for aye to hide, 

Mo craoibhin cno ! 



AILEEN THE HUNTRESS. 



[The incident related in the following ballad happened 
mbont the year 1731. Aileen, or Ellen, was daughter of M'Car- 
tie of Clidane, an estate originally bestowed upon this respect- 
able branch of the family of M'Cartie More, by James the 
seventh Earl of Desmond, and which, passing safe through 
the confiscations of Elizabeth, Cromwell, and William, re- 
mained in their possession until the beginning of the present 
century. Aileen, who is celebrated in the traditions of the 
people for her love of hunting, was the wife of James O'Con- 
nor, of Cluaki-Tairbh, grandson of David, the founder of the 
SioU Da, a well-known sept at this day in Kerry. This David 
was grandson to Thomas MacTeige O'Connor, of Ahalahanna, 
head of the second house of O'Connor Kerry, who, forfeiting 
-n 1666, escaped destruction by taking shelter among his rela- 
tions, the Nagles of Monanimy.] 



Faik Aileen M'Cartie, O'Connor's young 

bride, 
Forsakes her chaste pillow with matronly 

pride, 



And calls forth her maidens (their number 

was nine) 
To the bawn of her mansion, a-milking the 

kine. 
They came at her bidding, in kirtle and 

gown, 
And braided hair, jetty, and golden, and 

brown, 
And form like the palm-tree, and step like 

the fawn, 
And bloom like the wild rose that circled 

the bawn. 



As the Guebre's round tower o'er the fane 

of Ardfert — 
As the white hini of Brandon by young roes 

.begirt — 
As the moon in her glory 'mid bright stars 

outhung — 
Stood Aileen M'Cartie her maidens among. 
Beneath the rich kerchief, which matrons 

may wear, 
Stray'd ringleted tresses of beautiful hair ; 
They waved on her fair neck, as darkly as 

though 
'Twere the raven's wing shining o'er Man- 

gerton's snow ! 



A circlet of pearls o'er her white bosom 

lay, 
Erst worn by thy proud Queen, O'Connor 

the gay, 1 
And now to the beautiful Aileen come 

down, 
The rarest that ever shed light in the 

Laune.' 
The many-fringed falluinn* that floated be- 
hind, 
Gave its hues to the sun-light, its folds to 

the wind — 
The brooch that refrain'd it, some forefather 

bold 
Had torn from a sea-king in battle-field old ! 



3 The river Laune flows from the Lakes of Killarney, 
the celebrated Kerry Pearls are found in its waters. 
» FaBuinn.— The Irish mantle. 



POEMS OF EDWARD WALSH. 



705 



Around her went bounding two wolf-dogs 

of speed, 
So tall in their stature, so pure in their 

breed ; 
While the maidens awake to the new-milk's 

soft fall, 
A song of O'Connor in Carraig's proud 

hall. 
As the milk came outpouring, and the song 

came outsung, 
O'er the wall 'mid the maidens a red deer 

outsprung — 
Then cheer'd the fair lady — then rush'd the 

mad hound — 
And away with the wild stag in air-lifted 

bound ! 



The gem-fasten'd falluinn is dash'd on the 

bawn — 
One spring o'er the tall fence — and Aileen 

is gone ! 
But morning's roused echoes to the deep 

dells proclaim 
The course of that wild stag, the dogs, and 

the dame ! 
By Cluain Tairbh's green border, o'er moor- 
land and height, 
The red deer shapes downward the rush of 

his flight — 
In sun-light his antlers ail-gloriously flash, 
And onward the wolf-dogs and fair huntress 

dash! 



By Sliabh-Mis now winding (rare hunting I 

ween !) 
He gains the dark valley of Scota the 



Who found in its bosom a cairn-lifted 

grave, 
When Sliabh-Mis first flow'd with the blood 

of the brave ! 



1 The first battle fought between the Milesians and the 
Tuatha de Danans for the empire of Ireland was at Sliabh-Mis, 
In Kerry, In which Scota, an Egyptian princess, and the relict 
of Melesins, was slain. A valley on the north side of Sliabh- 
Mis, called Glean Scoithin, or the vale of Scota, is said to 
be the place of her Interment. The ancient chronicles as- 
sert that this battle was fought 1300 years before the Chris- 



By Coill-CuaighV green shelter, the hollow 
rocks ring — 

Coill-Cuaigh, of the cuckoo's first song in the 
spring, 

Coill-Cuaigh of the tall oak and gale-scent- 
ing spray — 

God's curse on the tyrants that wrought thy 
decay ! 



Now Maing's lovely border is gloriously 

won, 
Now the towers of tne island* gleam bright 

in the sun, 
And now Ceall-an Amanach's' portals are 

pass'd, 
Where headless the Desmond found refuge 

at last ! 
By Ard-na greach* mountain, and Avon- 

more's ^ead, 
To the Earl's proud pavilion the panting 

deer fled — 
Where Desmond's tall clansmen spread ban- 
ners of pride, 
And rush'd to the battle, and gloriously died 5 



The huntress is coming, slow; breathless, 

and pale, 
Her raven locks streaming all wild in the 

gale; 
She stops — and the breezes bring balm to 

her brow — 
But wolf-dog and wild deer, oh ! where are 

they now ? 
On R&idhlan-Tigh-an-Earla, by Avonmore's 

well, 
His bounding heart broken, the hunted deer 

fell, 



' (MU-Cualgh— the Wood of the Cuckoo,— so called from 
being the favorite haunt of the bird of summer, is now a bleat 
desolate moor. The axe of the stranger laid its honors low. 

» " Castle Island" or the " Island of Kerry,"— the stronghold 
of the Fitzgeralds. 

4 It was in this churchyard that the headless remains of the 
unfortunate Gerald, the 16th Earl of Desmond, were privately 
interred. The head was carefully pickled, and sent over to 
the English queen, who had it fixed on London bridge. This 
mighty chieftain possessed more than 570,000 acres of land, 
and had a train of 500 gentlemen of his own name and race. 
At the source of the Blackwater, where he sought refjge from 
his inexorable foes, is a mountain called " Eeidhlan-Tigh-an- 
ESrla," or "The Plain of the Earl's House." He waB slaitt 
near Castle Island on 11th November, 1583. 

• Ard na greaeh,—the height of the spoilB or armiea. 



POEMS OF EDWARD WALSH. 



And o'er him the brave hounds all gallantly 
died, 


O'er the red deer and tall dogs that lie on 
the hill ! 


fcj death still victorious — their fangs in his 
side. 


Whose harp at the banquet told distant and 
wide, 




This feat of fair Aileen, O'Connor's young 


Ti« evening — the hreezes heat cold on her 


hride? 


hreast, 
And Aileen must seek her far home in the 


O'Daly's — whose guerdon tradition hath 
told, 


west; 
Y'/ weeping, she lingers where the mist- 
wreaths are chill. 


Was a purple-crown'd wine-cup of beantifnl 
goldl 






POEMS OF ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. 



FORGET ME NOT. 

(prom "blanid.") 

"' The East Wind sprang into a lovely place, 

.And cried, ' I'll slay the flowers and leave 

no trace 

Of all their blooming in this happy spot! ' 

And, as before his breath the sweet flowers 

died, 
■One little bright-eyed blossom moaned and 
cried, 
' woods! forget me not! forget me not! 

" ' woods of waving trees! living streams! 
In all your noontide joys and starry dreams, 

Let me, for love, let me be unforgot! 
O birds that sing your carols while I die, 
■0 list to me! hear my piteous cry! 

Forget me not! alas! forget me not! ' 

"And the Gods heard her plaint and swept 

away 
The bitter-fanged, strong East Wind from 
his prey, 
And smiled upon the flower and changed 
her lot, 
So now that, as we mark her azure leaf, 
We think of life and love and parting grief, 
And sigh, 'Forget me not! forget me 
not! ' " 



THE DOVES. 
(from "blanid.") 
'" My little blue doves were born, 

Were born in the windy March, 

Up in the tapering larch 
'That laughs in the light of morn: 
O, so high o'er the meadow! 

0, so high o'er the glen! 
And they sit in the leafy shadow, 

The joy and delight of men, 



Cooing, with voices flowing 

In melody soft and sweet, 
Their necks with the rainbow glowing, 

And the pink on their silver feet. 

" My little doves lived together, 

Unweeting of woe and pain, 

Through the days of the winds and rain 
And the sunny and fragrant weather; 
And the lark sang o'er them in heaven, 

And the linnet from banks of flowers, 
And the robin chanted at even, 

And the thrush in the morning hours 
Carolled to cheer their wooing, 

And the blackbird merry and bold 
Answered their cooing, cooing 

Out from the windy wold. 

" When the daisy its eye uncloses, 
And the cowslip glistens with dew, 
And the hyacinth pure and blue 

And the lilies and pearl-bright roses 

Prink themselves in the splendor 
Of the delicate white-foot Dawn, 

' Mid the flowers and the fragrance tender 
My little dove's heart was thawn 

With love by the cooing, cooing 
Of the gentle mate at her side, 

And they married in midst of their wooing, 
My bridegroom and woodland bride! " 



WHAT IS THIS LOVE? 
(from "blanid.") 

What is this love, — this love that 
My heart's warm pulses quiver? 
They say it is the power that wakes 
The hyacinth 'mid hazel brakes, 
The lilies by the river, 



POEMS OF ROBERT DWYER JOYCE. 



And that same tiling that bids the dove 
Sit in the pine-tree high above, 

Its sweetheart wooing; 
But oh ! alas! whate'er it be, 
And howsoe'er it comes to me, 

It comes for my undoing! 

The lily of the river side 

By its sweet mate reposes 
Through autumn moons and winter-tide, 
To wake in love and beauty's pride 

When comes the time of roses; 
And in the springing of the year 
The doves' sweet voices you will hear 

Their vows renewing; 
But oh! alas! whate'er love be, 
And howsoe'er it comes to me, 

It comes for my undoing! 



THE BLACKSMITH OF LIMERICK, 
i. 

He grasped his ponderous hammer, he could 
not stand it more, 

To hear the bombshells bursting, and thun- 
dering battle's roar; 

He said, " The breach they're mounting, the 
Dutchman's murdering crew — 

I'll try my hammer on their heads, and see 
what that can do! 

ii. 
"Now, swarthy Ned and Moran, make up 

that iron well, 
'Tie Sarsfield's horse that wants the shoes, 

so mind not shot or shell." 
"Ah, sure," cried both, " the horse can wait 

— for Sarsfield's on the wall, 
And where you go, we'll follow, with you to 

stand or fall!" 

in. 

The blacksmith raised his hammer, and 

rushed into the street, 
His 'prentice boys behind him, the ruthless 

foe to meet — 



High on the breach of Limerick, with daunt- 
less hearts they stood, 

Where bombshells burst, and shot fell thick, 
and redly ran the blood. 

IV. 
" Now look you, brown-haired Moran, and 

mark you, swarthy Ned, 
This day we'll prove the thickness of many 

a Dutchman's head! 
Hurrah! upon their bloody path they're 

mounting gallantly; 
A/id now the first that tops the breach, leave- 

him to this and me!" 



The first that gained the rampart, he was a 
captain brave, — 

A captain of the grenadiers, with blood- 
stained dirk and glaive; 

He pointed, and he parried, but it was all in 
vain, 

For fast through skull and helmet the ham- 
mer found his brain! 

VI. 

The next that topped the rampart, he was a 
colonel bold, 

Bright, through the dust of battle, his hel- 
met flashed with gold. 

" Gold is no match for iron," the doughty 
blacksmith said, 

As with that ponderous hammer he cracked 
his foeman's head. 



" Hurrah for gallant Limerick! " black Ned 

and Moran cried, 
As on the Dutchmen's leaden heads their 

hammers well they plied. 
A bombshell burst between them — one fell 

without a groan, 
One leaped into the lurid air, and down the 

breach was thrown. 



Brave smith ! brave smith ! " cried Sarsfield r 
"beware the treacherous mine! 



POEMS OF THOMAS DWYER JOYCE. 



TOO 



Brave smith! brave smith! fall backward, or 
surely death is thine! " 

The smith sprang up the rampart, and leaped 
the blood-stained wall, 

As high into the shuddering air went foe- 
men, breach, and all! 



I T p, like a red volcano, they thundered wild 
and high, — 

Spear, gun, and shattered standard, and foe- 
men through the sky; 

And dark and bloody was the shower that 
round the blacksmith fell; — 

He thought upon his 'prentice boys — they 
were avenged well. 



On foemen and defenders a silence gathered 

down; 
'Twas broken by a triumph-shout that shook 

the ancient town, 
As out its heroes sallied, and bravely charged 

and slew, 
And taught King William and his men what 

Irish hearts could do! 



Down rushed the swarthy blacksmith unto 

the river side; 
He hammered on the foe's pontoon to sink 

it in the tide; 
The timber it was tough and strong, it took 

no crack or strain; 
"Mavrone! 't won't break," the blacksmith 

roared; " I'll try their heads again! " 



He rushed upon the flying ranks — his ham- 
mer ne'er was slack, 

For in through blood and bone it crashed, 
through helmet and through jack; — 

He's ta'en a Holland captain, beside the red 
pontoon, 

And " Wait you here," he boldly cries; " I'll 
send you back full soon! 

XIII. 

"Dost see this gory hammer? It cracked 
some skulls to-day, 



And yours 'twill crack if you don't stand 

and list to what I say: — 
Here! take it to your cursed king, and tell 

him softly too, 
'Twould be acquainted with his skull, if he 

were here, not you! " 



The blacksmith sought his smithy, and blew 

his bellows strong; 
He shod the steed of Sarsfield, but o'er it 

sang no song. 
" Ochone! my boys are dead," he cried; 

" their loss I'll long deplore, 
But comfort's in my heart — their graves are 

red with foreign gore! " 



IN LIFE'S YOUNG- MORNING. 

TO MY WIFE. 

Am— "The Woods in Bloom.' 1 '' 



In life's young morning I quaffed the wine 
From Love's bright bowl as it sparkling 
came, 
And it warms me ever, that draught divine, 
When I think of thee, dearest, or name 
thy name. 
The night may fall, and the winds may blow 

From palace gardens or place of tombs, 
Yet I dream of our Love-time long ago 
the yellow laburnum blooms. 



Gay was the garden, bright shone the bower* 
Like a golden tent 'neath the summer 
skies, 
The sunbeams glittered on leaf and flower. 
And the light of heaven seemed in your 
eyes; 
The night may fall, and the winds may blow, 

But a gladness ever my heart assumes 
From that wine of love quaffed long ago 
the yellow laburnum 



POEMS OF THOMAS DWYER JOYCE. 



O'er vale and forest dark falls the night, 
Yet my heart goes back to the sun and 
shine 
"When you stood in the glory of girlhood 
bright 
Neath the golden blossoms, your hand in 
mine; 
The night may fall, and the winds may blow, 
And the greenwoods wither 'neath winter 
glooms; 
Yet it lives forever, that long ago, 
Beneath the yellow laburnum blooms. 



Through the misty night to the eye and ear 

Come the glitber of flowers and the songs 
of birds, — 
Come thy looks of fondness to me so dear, 

And thy witching smiles and thy loving 
words; 
The night may Ml and the winds may blow, 

But that hour forever my soul illumes, — 
Our golden Love-time long ago, 

Beneath the yellow laburnum blooms. 



THE CANNON. 

Air— " Barrack Hill." 
I. 

We are a loving company 

Of soldiers brave and hearty; 
We never fought for golden fee, 

For faction, or for party; 
The will to make old Ireland free, 
That set each dauntless man on, 
And banished us beyond the sea, 
With our brave iron cannon. 
And here's the gallant company 

That fought by Boyne and Shannon, 
That never feared an enemy, 
With our brave iron cannon! 



Come, fill me up a pint o' wine, 
Until 'tis brimming o'er, boys, 



Our gun is set in proper line, 

And we have balls galore, boys; 
Now, here's a health to good Lord Clare, 

Who'll lead us on to-morrow, 
When through the foe our balls will tear, 
And work them death and sorrow! 
And here's the gallant company 

That always forward ran on 
So boldly on the enemy, 
With our brave iron cannon! 



I've brought a wreath of shamrocks here, 

In memory of our own land, — 
'Tis withered like that island drear, — 

That sorrowful and lone land; 
I'll hang it nigh our cannon's mouth, 

To whet our memories fairly, 
And there's ro flower in all the south 
Could deck that gun so rarely. 
And here's the gallant company 

That soon shall rush each man on, 
And plough the Saxon enemy 
With our brave iron cannon! 



At Limerick how it made them run, 
The Dutchman and his crew, boys; 
'Twas then I made this gallant gun 

To plough them through and through, 
boys; 
And since that day in foreign lands 

It roared triumphant ever — 
It blazed away, yet here it stands, 
Where foeman's foot shall never! 
And here's the gallant company 

That soon shall rush each man on, 
And break and strew the enemy 
With our brave iron cannon! 



'Tis dinted well from mouth to breech 

With many a battle furrow; 
A fitting sermon it will preach 

At Fontenoy to-morrow. 
Then never let your spirits sink, 

But stand around, each man on 
This foreign slope, and we will drink 

One brave health to our cannon! 






POEMS OF THOMAS DWYER JOYCE. 



And here's the gallant company 
That soon shall rush each man 

And plough the Saxon enemy 
With our brave iron cannon! 



THE MOUNTAIN" ASH. 

Am— " The Qreen Ash Tree." 
L 

The mountain ash blooms in the wild, 
Or droops above the wandering rill; 
You ne'er can see 
A fairer tree, 
But I know one dear maiden mild 
With witching form more lovely still. 

ii. 
The mountain ash has berries fair, 
The reddest in the woodlands green; 
Sweet lips I know 
With redder glow 
Than ever lit those berries rare — 
The red lips of my bosom's queen. 



The mountain ash has leaves of gold 

When autumn browns the steep hill's side; 
Of locks I dream 
With brighter gleam 
Of yellow in their braid and fold 

Than e'er tinged leaf in woodland wide. 

IV. 

The mountain ash in winter sear 

Stands bravely up when wild winds blow; 
So love shall stand, 
Serene and bland, 
Between me and my Ellen dear, 
A fadeless flower in weal or woe. 



SONG. 

(FROM "BLANID.") 

" Wind of the west that bringest, 

O'er wood and lea, 
Perfume of flowers from my lady's bowers 

And a strain and a melody, — 



While soft 'mid the bloom thou singest 
Thy songs of laughter and sighs, 
Steal in where my darling lies 

With a kiss to her mouth from me! 

" White Bose, when at morn thou twinest 

Her lattice fair, 
Wave to and fro in the fresh sun's glow 

Till she wakes and beholds thee there; — 
When over her brow thou shinest, 

Then whisper from me, and press 

On her dear head one fond caress, 
And a kiss on her yellow hair! 

" Bose! and Wind that found her 

'Mid morning's glee! 
While the noon goes by, keep ever nigh 

With your beauty and melody; — 
With your smile and your song stay round her 

Till she closes her eyelids bright; 

Then give her a sweet Good-night 
And a kiss on the lips from me! " 



SONG OE THE SUFFEEEE. 

(FROM "BLANID.") 

Earth, air, and sun, and moon and star, 
Of man's strange soul but mirrors are, 
Bright when the soul is bright, and dark 
As now, without one saving spark, 
While the black tides of sorrow flow, 
And I am suffering and I know! 

To my sad eyes that sorrow dims 
The greenest grass the swallow skims, 
The flowers that once were fair to me, 
The meadow and the blooming tree, 
Dark as funereal garments grow, 
And I am suffering, and I know! 

The measured sounds of dancing feet, 
The songs of wood-birds wild and sweet, 
The music of the horn and flute, 
Of the gold strings of harp and lute, 
Unheeded all shall come and go, 
For I am suffering, and I know! 



POEMS OF JAMES JEFFREY EOCHE. 



No kindly counsel of a friend 


Misery, companion dread, 


With soothing balm the hurt can mend. 


Thou art the partner of my bed. 


I walk alone in grief, and make 


Soul to soul will you and I 


Mv bitter moan for her dear sake, 


Ever on the same couch lie, 


For loss of love is man's worst woe, 


While life's bitter waters flow, 


And I am suffering, and I know ! 


And I am suffering, and I know! 



1 



POEMS OF JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. 



THE V-A-S-E. 

From the madding crowd they stand apa 
The maidens four and the Work of Art; 

And none might tell from sight alone 
In which had Culture ripest grown — 

The Gotham Million fair to see, 
The Philadelphia Pedigree, 

The Boston Mind of azure hue 
Or the soulful Soul from 



For all loved Art in a seemly way, 
With an earnest soul and a capital A. 

Long they worshipped ; but no one broke 
The sacred stillness, until up spoke 

The Western one from the nameless place, 
Who, blushing, said: " What a lovely vase ! " 

Over three faces a sad smile flew, 
And they edged away from Kalamazoo. 

But Gotham's haughty soul was stirred 

To crush the stranger with one small word. 

Deftly hiding reproof in praise, 

She cries: " 'Tis, indeed, a lovely vaze!" 



But brief her unworthy triumph when 
The lofty one from the home of Penn, 

With the consciousness of two grandpapas, 
Exclaims: " It is quite a lovely vahs!" 

And glances ai-ound with an anxious thrill, 
Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill. 

But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee 
And gently murmurs: " Oh, pardon me! 

I did not catch your remark, because 
I was so entranced with that charming 
vaws!" 

Dies erit prwgelida 
Sinistra quum Bostonia. 



ANDROMEDA. 



They chained her fair young body to the 

cold and cruel stone: 
The beast begot of sea and slime had marked 

her for his own; 
The callous world beheld the wrong, and 

left her there alone. 



POEMS OF JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. 



'13 



Base caitiffs who belied her, false kinsmen 
who denied her, 

Ye left her there alone! 

My Beautiful, they left thee in thy peril and 
thy pain: 

The night that hath no morrow was brood- 
ing on the main, 

But lo! a light is breaking of hope for thee 
again. 

'Tis Perseus' sword a-flaming, thy dawn of 
day proclaiming 

Across the western main, 

Ireland! my country! he comes to break 
thy chain. 



netchaie'ef. 

[Netchaieff, a Russian Nihilist, was condemned to prison 
lor life. Deprived of writing materials, he allowed his 
finger-nail to grow until he fashioned it into a pen. With 
this he wrote, in his blood, on the margins of a book, the 
story of his sufferings. Almost his last entry was a note 
that his jailer had just boarded up the solitary pane which 
admitted a little light into his cell. The " letter written in 
blood " was smuggled out of the prison and published, and 
Netchaieff died very soon after. He had been ten years in 
his dungeon.] 

Netchaieff is dead, your Majesty. 
You knew him not, he was a common hind; 
He lived ten years in hell, and then he died, 
To seek another hell, as we must think, 
Since he was rebel to your Majesty. 

Ten years! The time is long, if only spent 
In gilded courts and palaces like thine. 
E'en courtiers, courtesans, and gilded moths 
That nutter round a throne find weary hours 
And days of ennui. But Netchaieff 
Counted the minutes through ten dragging 

years 
Of pain. His soul was God's, bis body man's, 
To chain, and maim, and kill; and he is dead. 
Yet something left he that you cannot kill — 
The story of his hell, writ in his blood — 
Plebeian blood, base, ruddy, yet in hue 
And substance just such blood as once we 



111! 



the Ekatrinofsky road- 



And that blood was your sainted sire's, the 

same 
That fills your veins and would your face 

suffuse, 
Did ever tyrant know the way to blush. 

The tale ? But to what end repeat 
A thrice-told tale ? Netchaieff is dead. 
Ten thousand others live. Go view their 

lives; 
See the wan captive, in his narrow cell; 
Mark the shrunk frame and shoulders bowed 

and bent; 
The thin hand trembling, shading blinded 

From unaccustomed light; the fettered 

limbs; 
The shuffling tread and furtive look and 

start. 
Bid the dank walls give up the treasured 

groans, 
The proud lips still withheld from mortal 

ear; 
Ask of the slimy stones what they have seen, 
And shrank to see, polluted with the blood 
Of martyred innocence — youth linked to age 
And both to death — the matron and the 

maid 
Prey to the slaver's lust and driver's whip, 
All gladly welcoming the silent cell 
And vermin's company, less vile than man's. 
See these and these in twice a score of 

hells, 
And faintly guess what horrors lie behind 
That you can never see; and you shall guess 
Why we rejoice that Netchaieff is dead — 
Kings cannot harm the dead — 
Kings cannot harm the dead. 



A SAILOR'S YARN. 

(AS NARRATED BY THE SECOND MATE TO ONE 
OF THE MARINES.) 

This is the tale that was told to me, 
By a battered and shattered son of the sea; 
To me and my messmate, Silas Green, 
Wlien I was a guileless young marine. 



POEMS OF JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. 



Twas the good ship GyascuUts, 

All in the China seas; 
With the wind a lee, and the capstan free, 

To catch the summer breeze. 

'Twas Captain Porgie on the deck, 
To the mate in the mizzen hatch, 

While the boatswain bold, in the forward hold, 
Was winding his larboard watch. 

" Oh, how does our good ship head to-night ? 

How heads our gallant craft ? " 
" Oh, she heads to the E. S. W. by N., 

And the binnacle lies abaft." 

" Oh, what does the quadrant indicate? 

And how does the sextant stand?" 
"Oh, the sextant's down to the freezing 
point, 

And the quadrant's lost a hand." 

" Oh, and if the quadrant's lost a hand, 

And the sextant falls so low. 
It's our body and bones to Davy Jones 

This night are bound to go. 

"Oh, fly aloft to the garboard-strake, 

And reef the spanker boom, 
Bend a studding sail on the martingale, 

To give her weather room. 

" Oh, Boatswain, down in the for'ard hold 

What water do you find ? " 
" Pour foot and a half by the royal gaff 

And rather more behind." 

" Oh, sailors, collar your marline spikes, 

And each belaying pin; 
Come, stir your stumps to spike the pumps. 

Or more will be coming in." 

They stirred then- stumps, they spiked the 
pumps, 

They spliced the mizzen brace; 
Aloft and alow they worked, but oh! 

The water gained apace. 

They bored a hole below her line 

To let the water out, 
But more and more with awful roar 

The water in did spout. 



Then up spoke the cook of our gallant ship — 

And he was a lubber brave — 
" I've several wives in various ports, 

And my life I'd like to save." 

Then up spoke the captain of marines, 

Who dearly loved his prog: 
" It's awful to die, and it's worse to be dry, 

And I move we pipes to grog." 

Oh, then 'twas the gallant second-mate 

As stopped them sailors' jaw, 
'Twas the second-mate whose hand had 
weight 

In laying down the law. 

He took the anchor on his back, 

And leapt into the main; 
Through foam and spray he clove his way, 

And sunk and rose again. 

Through foam and spray a league away 

The anchor stout he bore, 
Till, safe at last, he made it fast, 

And warped the ship ashore. 

Taint much of a deed to talk about, 

But a ticklish thing to see, 
And something to do, if I say it, too, — 

For that second mate was me! 

This is the tale that was told to me, 
By that modest and truthful son of the sea. 
And I envy the life of a second mate, 
Though captains curse him and sailors hate; 
For he ain't like some of the swabs I've seen, 
As would go and lie to a poor marine. 






THE CORPORAL'S LETTER. 
When the sword is sheathed and the cannon 

lies 
Dumb and still on the parapet, 
For the spider to weave his silken net 
And the doves to nest in its silent mouth; 
When the manly trade declines and dies. 
And hearts shrink up in ignoble drouth, 
When pitiful peace reigns everywhere, 
What is left for old Corporal Pierre ? 



POEMS OF JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. 



715. 



Naught remains for an honest wight 
But to write for bread, as the poets do, 
Beggarly scrawls for paltry sous. 
The billet-doux and the angry dun 
To the writing-machine are all as one. 
What matter the word or sentiment ? 
If the fee be paid he is well content. 
To have heart in one's trade, ah! one must 
fight. 

" M'sieu, if you please," and a timid hand 

Is laid on the soldier's threadbare sleeve. 

Pierre was bearish that day, I grieve 

To say, and his speech was curt, 

As will happen when want or old wounds 

hurt — 
" I wish you to write a letter, please." 
"All right. Ten sous." But the little boy 
Has turned away. " Morbleu! Well, then 
You haven't the money ? You think that pen 
And ink and paper grow on the trees ? — 
Halt! Can't a soldier his joke enjoy 
But you must flare up ? I understand. 

A begging letter, of course. And who 
Shall be favored to-day ? Dictate — ' M'sieu' " 
"Pardon. 'Tis not ' M'sieu. ' Madame, 
La Sainte Vierge." The writer stopped, 
And the pen from his trembling fingers 

dropped; 
The desk was shut with an angry slam. 
"Sapristi! You little rascal, you 
Would jest with the Holy Virgin, too ? " 

But the child was weeping, and old Pierre 
Suppressed his wrath and indulged a stare. 
" My mother, M'sieu, she sleeps so long, 
These two whole days, and the room is cold, 
And she will not awake. It is very wrong, 
I know, for a boy to be afraid 
When a boy is as many as five years old, 
But I was so hungry and when I prayed 
And the Virgin did not come, I thought 
Perhaps if I sent her a letter, why" — 

He paused, but old Pierre said naught, 
There was something new in the old man's 

throat, 
And something strange in the old man's eye. 



At length he took up his pen and wrote. 
Long it took him to write and fold 
And seal with a hand that was far from bold ^ 
Then: "Courage, small comrade, wait and 

see; 
Your letter is mailed, and presently 
An answer will come, perhaps, to me. 

I will open my desk. Behold 'tis there! 
' From Heaven,' it says.' A M'sieu Pierre.' 
You do not read ? N'importe! I do. 
'Tis a letter from Heaven, and all about you,. 
And, what ? ' Mamma is in Heaven, too, 
And her little boy must be brave and good 
And live with Pierre.' That's understood. 
While Pierre has a crust or sou to spare 
There's enough for him and thee, mon cher. "" 

Do you think that letter came from above, 

Freighted with God's and a mother's love ? 

The child, at least, believed it true, 

So at the last Pierre did, too, 

When the Heavenly mail came once again* 

To a grim old man on a bed of pain, 

Whose dying eyes alone could see, 

And read the missive joyfully: 

He knew the Hand, and proudly smiled, 

For it was as the hand of a little child. 



THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 

The hands of the King are soft and fair, 

They never knew labor's stain. 
The hands of the Robber redly wear 

The bloody brand of Cain. 
But the hands of the Man are hard and 
scarred 

With the scars of toil and pain 

The slaves of Pilate have washed his hands 

As white as a King's may be. 
Barabbas with wrists unfettered stands, 

For the world has made him free. 
But Thy palms toil-worn by nails are torn,. 

Christ, on Calvary! 



71G 



POEMS OF JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. 



FOR THE PEOPLE. 

We are the hewers and delvers who toil for 
another's gain. 

The common clods and the rabble, stunted 
of brow and brain. 

What do we want, the gleaners, of the har- 
vest we have reaped ? 

What do we want, the neixters, of the honey 
we have heaped ? 

We want the drones to be driven away from 

our golden hoard; 
We want to share in the harvest; we want to 

sit at the board; 
We want what sword or suffrage has never 

yet won for man, 
The fruits of his toil, God-promised, when 

the curse of toil began. 

Ye have tried the sword and scepter, the 

cross and the sacred word, 
In all the years, and the kingdom is not yet 

here of the Lord. 
Is it useless, all our waiting? Are they 

fruitless, all our prayers? 
Has the wheat, while men were sleeping, 

been oversowed with tares? 

What gain is it to the people that a God laid 

down his life, 
If, twenty centuries after, His world be a 

world of strife ? 
If the serried ranks be facing each other 

with ruthless eyes 
And steel in their hands, what profits a 

Saviour's sacrifice ? 

Ye have tried, and failed to rule us; in vain 

to direct have tried. 
Not wholly the fault of the ruler; not utterly 

blind the guide. 



Mayhap there needs not a ruler; mayhap we 

can find the way. 
At least ye have ruled to ruin; at least ye 

have led astray. 

What matter if king or consul or president 

holds the rein, 
If crime and poverty ever be links in the 

bondman's chain? 
What careth the burden-bearer that Liberty 

packed his load, 
If Hunger presseth behind him with a sharp 

and ready goad ? 

There's a serf whose chains are of paper; 

there's a king with a parchment crown; 
There are robber knights and brigands in 

factory, field and town. 
But the vassal pays his tribute to a lord of 

wage and rent; 
And the baron's toll is Shylock's, with a 

flesh-and-blood per cent. 

The seamstress bends to her labor all night 

in a narrow room; 
The child, defrauded of childhood, tip-toes 

all day at the loom; 
The soul must starve; for the body can barely 

on husks be fed; 
And the loaded dice of a gambler settle the 

price of bread. 

Ye have shorn and bound the Samson and 
robbed him of learning's light; 

But his sluggish brain is moving; his sinews 
have all their might. 

Look well to your gates of Gaza, your privi- 
lege, pride and caste! 

The Giant is blind and thinking, and his 
locks are growing fast. 






POEMS OF LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY. 



GLOUCESTER HAEBOE. 

North from the beautiful islands, 
North from the headlands and highlands, 

The long sea-wall, 
The white ships flee with the swallow; 
The day-beams follow and follow, 

Glitter and fall. 

The brown ruddy children that fear not, 
Lean over the quay, and they hear not 

Warnings of lips; 
For their hearts go a-sailing, a-sailing, 
Out from the wharves and the wailing 

After the ships. 

Nothing to them is the golden 
Curve of the sands, or the olden 

Haunt of the town; 
Little they reck of the peaceful 
Chiming of bells, or the easeful 

Sport on the down: 

The orchards no longer are cherished; 
The charm of the meadow has perished: 

Dearer, ay me ! 
The solitude vast unbefriended, 
The magical voice and the splendid 

Fierce will of the sea. 

Beyond them, by ridges and narrows 
The silver prows speed like the arrows 

Sudden and fair; 
Like the hoofs of Al Borak the wondrous, 
Lost in the blue and the thund'rous 

Depths of the air; 

On to the central Atlantic, 
Where passionate, hurrying, frantic 
Elements meet; 



To the play and the calm and commotion. 
Of the treacherous, glorious ocean, 
Cruel and sweet. 

In the hearts of the children forever 
She fashions their growing endeavor, 

The pitiless sea; 
Their sires in her caverns she stayeth,. 
The spirits that love her she slayeth, 

And laughs in her glee. 

"Woe, woe, for the old fascination! 
The women make deep lamentation 

In starts and in slips; 
Here always is hope unavailing, 
Here always the dreamers are sailing 

After the ships! 



PEIVATE THEATRICALS. 

You were a haughty beauty, Polly, 
(That was in the play,) 

I was the lover melancholy; 
(That was in the play.) 

And when your fan and you receded,. 

And all my passion lay unheeded, 

If still with tenderer words I pleaded,. 
That was in the play! 

I met my rival at the gateway, 
(That was in the play,) 
And so we fought a duel straightway; 

(That was in the play.) 

But when Jack hurt my arm unduly, 

And you rushed over, softened newly» 

And kissed me, Polly! truly, truly, 

Was that in the play ? 



ri8 



POEMS OF LOUISE IMOGEN GTTINEY. 



BEOTHER BARTHOLOMEW. 
Brother BARTHOLOMEW, working-time, 

Would fall into musing and drop his tools; 
Brother Bartholomew cared for rhyme 

More than for theses of the schools; 
And sighed, and took up his hurden so, 
Yowed to the Muses, for weal or woe. 

At matins he sat, the hook on his knees, 
But his thoughts were wandering faraway; 

And chanted the evening litanies 

Watching the roseate skies grow gray, 

Watching the brightening starry host 

Elame like the tongues at Pentecost. 

"A foolish dreamer, and nothing more; 

The idlest fellow a cell could hold; " 
. So murmured the worthy Isidor, 

Prior of ancient Nithiswold; 
Yet pitiful, with dispraise content, 
Signed never the culprit's banishment. 

Meanwhile Bartholomew went his way 
And patiently wrote in his sunny cell; 

His pen fast travelled from day to day; 
His books were covered, the walls as well. 

'"But for the monk that I miss, instead 

Of this lazy rhymer! " the Prior said. 

Bartholomew dying, as mortals must, 
Not unbelov'd of the cowled throng, 

Thereafter, they took from the dark and dust 
Of shelves and of corners, many a song 

That cried loud, loud to the farthest day, 

How a bard had arisen — and passed away. 

Wonderful verses! fair and fine, 
Eich in the old Greek loveliness; 

The seer-like vision, half divine; 
Pathos and merriment in excess: 

And every perfect stanza told 

Of love and of labor manifold. 

The King came out and stood beside 
Bartholomew's taper-lighted bier, 

And turning to his lords, he sighed: 

" How worn and wearied doth he appear, — 

Our noble poet, — now he is dead!" 

'" tireless worker! " the Prior said. 



A BALLAD OF METZ. 
Leojt went to the wars, true soul without a 

sfain; 
First at the trumpet-call; thy son, Lorraine! 

Never a mighty host thrilled so with one 

desire; 
Never a past crusade lit nobler fire. 

And he, among the rest, marched gaily in 

the van, — 
No braver blood than his since time began. 

And mild and fond was he, and sensitive as 

a leaf. 
'Just Heaven! that he was this, is half my 

grief. 

We followed where the last detachment led 

away, 
At Metz, an evil-starred and bitter day; 

Some of us had been hurt in the first hot 

assault, 
Yet will was shaken not, nor zeal at fault. 

We hurried on to the front; our banners 

were soiled- and rent; 
Grim riflemen, gallants all, our captain sent. 

A Prussian lay by a tree rigid as ice, and 
pale, 

Crawled thither, out of the reach of battle- 
hail. 

His cheek was hollow and white, parched was 

his swollen lip; 
Tho' bullets liad fastened on their leaden 

grip, 

Tho' ever he gasped and called, called faintly 

from the rear, 
What of it ? And all in scorn I closed mine 

ear. 

The very colors he wore, they burnt and 

bruised my sight; 
The greater his anguish, so was my delight. 



We laughed a savage laugh, who loved our 

land too well, 
Giving its enemies hate unspeakable: 



POEMS OF LOUISE IMOGEN" GUINEY. 



719 



But Leon, kind heart, poor heart, clutched 

me around the arm: 
" He faints for water! " he said; " i± were no 

harm 

To soothe a wounded man already on death's 

rack." 
He seized his brimming gourd, and hurried 

back. 

The foeman grasped it fiercely. 'Neath his 

wild eye's lid 
Something coiled like a snake, glittered and 



He raised his shattered frame up from the 

grassy ground, 
And drank with the loud, mad haste of a 

thirsty hound. 

Leon knelt by his side, one hand beneath 

his head; 
Scarce kinder the water than the words he 

said. 

He rose and left him, stretched at length on 

the grassy plot, 
The viper-like flame in his eyes remembered 

not. 

Leon with easy gait strode on; he bared his 

hair, 
Swinging his army cap, humming an air. 

Just as he neared the troops, there by the 

purpled stream — 
{rood God! a sudden snap, and a lurid gleam. 

I wrenched my bandaged arm with the hor- 
ror of the start: 
Leon was low at my feet, shot thro' the heart. 

Do you think an angel told whose hands the 

deed had done ? [one. 

To the Prussian we dashed back, mute, every 



Do you think we stopped to curse, or wail- 
ing feebly, stood ? 

Do you think we spared who shed his friend's 
sweet blood ? 



Ha! vengeance on the fiend! we smote him 

as if hired, 
I most of them, and more when they grew 

tired. 

I saw the deep eye lose its dastard, steely 

blue: 
I saw the trait'rous breast pierced thro' and 

thro.' 

His musket, smoking yet, unhanded, lay 



Three times three thousand deaths that 
Prussian died. 

And he, our lad, our dearest, lies, too, upon 

the plain:. 
teach no more Christ's mercy, thy sons, 

Lorraine! 



THE RIVAL SINGERS. 

Two marvellous singers of old had the city 

of Florence, — 
She that is loadstar of pilgrims, Florence the 

beautiful, — ■ 
Who sang biit thro' bitterest envy their ex- 
quisite music, 
Each for o'ercoming the other, as fierce as 

the seraphs 
At the dread battle pre-mundane, together 

down-wrestl ing. 
And once when the younger, surpassing the 

best at a festival, 
Thrilled the impetuous people, singing so 

rarely! 
That up on their shoulders they raised him, 

and carried him straightway 
Over the threshold, 'mid ringing of belfries 

and shouting, 
Till into his pale cheek mounted a color like 

morning 
(For he was Saxon in blood) that made more 

resplendent 
The gold of his hair for an aureole round and 

above him, 



POEMS OF LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY. 



Seeing which, called his adorers aloud. thank- 
ing Heaven 
That sent down an angel to sing for them, 

taking their homage; — ■ 
While this came to pass in the city, one 

marked it, and harbored 
A purpose which followed endlessly on, like 

his shadow. 
Therefore at night, as a vine that aye clam- 
bering stealthily 
Slips by the stones to an opening, came the 

assassin, 
And left the deep sleeper by moonlight, the 

Saxon hair dabbled 
With red, and the brave voice smitten to 

death in his bosom. 
Now this was the end of the hate and the 

striving and singing. 
But the Italian thro' Florence, his city 

familiar, 
Fared happily ever, none knowing the crime 

and the passion, 
Winning honor and guerdon in peaceful and 

prosperous decades, 
Supreme over all, and rejoiced with the 

cheers and the clanging. 
Carissimaf what? and you wonder the 

world did not loathe him ? 
Child, he lived long, and was lauded, and 

died very famous. 



AN EPITAPH FOE WENDELL 
PHILLIPS. 

Of the avengers of the right, 

The city's race magnificent, 

Here sleeps the last, his splendid light 

For lives oppressed benignly spent. 

All scorn he dared, all sorrow bore: 

Now hang your bays beside his door. 

Who shall in simple state endure 
Like him, thrice incorruptible ? 
Who shame his valiant voice and sure, 
The strength of all our citadel ? 
Or turn upon tyrannic men 
That haughty, holy glance again ? 



Here does he sleep; and hence in grief 

We heavily looked toward the sea, 

Nor with the passion of belief 

Descried one other such as he; 

Then shattered his great shield, and knew 

The king was dead ! the kingdom, too. 



THE CALIPH AND THE BEGGAR. 

Scokxer of the pleading faces 
In the first year of his reign, 
From the lean crowd and its traces, 

Down the open orchard-lane, 
Walked young Mahmoud in his glory, 
In his pomp and his disdain; 

And above all oratory, 

Music's sweetness, ocean's might, 

Fell a voice from branches hoary: 

" He whose heart is at life's height, 
Who has wisdom, fame, and riches, 
Islam's greatest, dies this night." 

And he crossed the rampart-ditches 
Blinded, and confused, and slow, 
Till, from palace nooks and niches 

Frowned his ghostly sires a-row, 
And their turrets triple-jointed 
Shook with tempests of his woe. 

Long past midnight, disanointed, 
Prone upon his breast he lay, 
Warring on that hour appointed. 

But behold! at break of day, 
As if Heaven itself had spoken, 
Blown across the bannered bay, 

Over mart and mosque outbroken, 
Came the silver, solemn chime 
For some parted spirit's token ! 

Mahmoud, with free breath sublime 
Summoned one whose snow-locks heaving 
Made the vision of hoar Time; 



POEMS OF KATHARINE TYNAN. 



And the red tides of thanksgiving 
On his brow, he rose and said: 
" In my city of the living 

Which, proclaimed of bells, is dead ? " 
And the graybeard answered: " Master, 
One who yesternight for bread, 

At thy gateway's bronze pilaster, 
Begged in vain: blind Selim, he, 
Victim of the old disaster." 

And the speaker suddenly 

Looked on his hard lord with wonder, 

For his tears were strange to see. 

Then again, where boughs asunder 
Held the wavy orchard tent 
Sun-empurpled clusters under 



In changed mood the Caliph went; 
And anew heard sounds upgather, 
C hidings with caressings blent, 



As the voice once of his father: 

" Haughty heart ! not thou wert wise, 

Rich, beloved; Selim rather 

Islam's prince in Allah's eyes: 
Even the Meek, in his great station, 
Freehold had of Paradise ! " 

Lo ! when plague-winds' desolation 
Pierced Bassora's burning wall, 
Circled with a kneeling nation 

Whom his mercies held in thrall, 
Died the Caliph, whispering tender 
Counsel to his liegemen tall: 

"One last service, children ! render.' 
Me, whose pride the Lord forgave;, 
Not by our supreme Defender, 

Not beside the holy wave, 
Not in places where my race is 
Lay me ! but in Selim's grave." 



POEMS OF KATHAKINE TYNAN. 



WAITING. 

In a grey cave, where comes no glimpse of 
sky, 
Set in the blue hill's heart full many a 
• mile, 
Having the dripping stone for canopy, 
Missing the wind's laugh and the good 
sun's smile, 
I, Fionn, with all my sleeping warriors lie. 

In the great outer cave our horses are, 
Carved of grey stone, with heads erect, 



Purple their trappings, gold each bolt and 

bar, 
One fore foot poised, the quivering thin 

ears raised ; 
Methinks they scent the battle from afar. 

A frozen hound lies by each warrior's feet T 
Ah, Bran, my jewel ! Bran, my king of 
hounds ! 
Deep throated art thou, mighty flanked, and 
fleet; 
Dost thou remember how with giant- 
bounds [heat ?' 
Did'st chase the red deer in the noontide 



POEMS OF KATHARINE TYNAN. 



I was a king in ages long ago, 

A mighty warrior, and a seer likewise, 

Still mine eyes look with solemn gaze of woe 
From stony lids adown the centuries, 

And in my frozen heart I know, I know. 

A giant I, of a primeval race, 

These, great-limbed, bearing helm and 
shield and sword, 
My good knights are, and each still awful 
face 
Will one day wake to knowledge at a 
word — 
O'erhead the groaning years turn roiind 
apace. 

Here with the peaceful dead we keep our_ 

state ; 
Some day a cry shall ring adown the 

lands : 
"The hour is come, the hour grown large 

with fate." 
He knows who hath the centuries in His 

hands 
When that shall be — till then we watch and 

wait. 

The queens that loved us, whither be they 
gone, 
The sweet, large women with the hair as 
gold, 
As though one drew long threads from out 
the sun? 
Ages ago, grown tired, and very cold, 
They fell asleep beneath the daisies wan. 

The waving woods are gone that once we 
knew, 
And towns grown grey with years are in 
their place ; 
A little lake, as innocent and blue 

As my queen's eyes were, lifts a baby face 
Where once my palace towers were fair to 
view. 

The fierce old gods we hailed with worship- 
ing* 
The blind old gods, waxed mad with sin 
and blood, 



Laid down their godhead as an idle thing 
At a God's feet, whose throne was but a 

Rood, 
His crown wrought thorns, His joy long 

travailing. 

Here in the gloom I see it all again, 
As ages since in visions mystical 

I saw the swaying crowds of fierce-eyed men, 
And heard the murmurs in the judgment 
hall, 

0, for one charge of my dark warriors then ! 

Nay, if He willed, His Father presently 
Twelve star-girt legions unto Him had 
given. 
I traced the blood-stained path to Calvary, 
And heard far off the angels weep in 
Heaven ; 
Then the Rood's arms against an awful sky. 

I saw Him when they pierced Him, hands 
and feet, 
And one came by and smote Him, this 
new King, 
So pale and harmless, on the tired face, 
sweet ; 
He was so lovely, and so pitying, 
The icy heart in me began to beat. 



Then a strong cry — the mountain 
and swayed 
That held us in its heart, the groaning 
world 
Was reft with lightning, and in ruins laid, 
His Father's awful hand the red bolts 
hurled, 
And He was dead — I trembled, sore afraid. 

Then I upraised myself with mighty strain 
In the gloom, I heard the tumult rage 
without, 
I saw those large dead faces glimmer plain, 
The life just stirred within them and 
went out, 
And I fell back, and grew to stone again. 

So the years went — on earth how 

be, [pace, 

Here in this cave their feet are slow of 



POEMS OF KATHAEINE TYNAN. 



And I grow old, and tired exceedingly: 
I would the sweet earth were my dwelling- 
place — 
Shamrocks and little daisies wrapping me ! 

There I should lie, and feel the silence sweet 
As a meadow at noon, where hirds sing 
in the trees; 
To mine ears should come the patter of little 
feet, 
And baby cries, and croon of summer 
seas, 
And the wind's laughter in the upland 
wheat. 

Meantime, o'erhead the years were full and 

bright, 
"With a kind sun, and gold wide fields of 

corn ; 
The happy children sang from morn to 

night, 
The blessed church bells rang, new arts 

were born, 
Strong towns rose up and glimmered fair 

and white. 

Once came a wind of conflict, fierce as hail, 
And beat about my brows: on the east- 
ward shore, 
Where never since the Vikings' dark ships 
sail, 
All day the battle raged with mighty roar ; 
At night the victor's fair dead face was pale. 

Ah! the dark years since then, the anguished 
cry 
That pierced my deaf ears, made my hard 
eyes weep, 
From Erin wrestling in her agony, 

While we, her strongest, in a helpless 
sleep 
Lay, as the blood-stained years trailed slowly 

And often in those years the East was drest 
In phantom fires, that mocked the dis- 
tant dawn, 

Then blackest night — her bravest and her 
best 



Were led to die, while I slept dumbly 
on, 
With the whole mountain's weight upon my 
breast. 

Once in my time, it chanced a peasant hind 
Strayed to this cave. I heard, and burst 
my chain 
And raised my awful face stone-dead and 
blind, 
Cried, "Is it time?" and so fell back 
again, 
I heard his wild cry borne adown the wind. 

Some hearts wait with us. Owen Roe 
O'Neill, 
The kingliest king that ever went un- 
crowned, 
Sleeps in his panoply of gold and steel 

Eeady to wake, and in the kindly ground 
A many another's death-wounds close and 



Great Hugh O'Neill, far off in purple Rome, 
And Hugh O'Donnell, in their stately 
tombs 
Lie, with their grand fair faces turned to 
home : 
Some day a voice will ring adown the 
glooms, 
" Arise, ye Princes, for the hour is come ! " 

And these will rise, and we will wait them 
here, 
In this blue hill-heart in fair Donegal; 
That hour shall sound the clash of sword 
and spear, 
The steeds shall neigh to hear their mas- 
ters' call, 
And the hounds' cry shall echo shrill and 
clear. 



Note. — This poem treats of a legend well known among 
the peasantry of the north of Ireland, which recounts how 
a band of Irish warriors of the primeval time lie in armour, 
and frozen in a deathly sleep, in one of the hill-caverns of 
Donegal highlands, there to await the hour of Ireland's 
redemption, when they will come forth to do battle for 
her under the leadership of the giant Finn. The legend 
further prophesies that in the hour of victory the phantom 
knights and their leader will be claimed by Death, from 
whom they have been so long withheld, that they will re- 
ceivf at last burial in holy earth, and that the hill-cavern 
will know them no more. 



POEMS OR KATHARINE TYNAN. 



TWO WAYFAREES. 

One with a sudden cry 
Crieth: " Lord ! and whence is this to me 
That in my daily pathway 1 should see 

Even Thee, Lord, coming nigh, 

With Thy still face and fair, 
And the divine deep sorrow in Thine eyes, 
And Thy eternal arms stretched loving-wise 

As on the Cross they were ? 

" If I had only known 
How I should meet Thee this day face to 

face, 
I had made all my life a praying-place 

For this hour's sake alone : 

Now am I poor indeed 
I who have gathered all things most forlorn, 
Pale earthly loves, and roses wan with 
thorn ; — 

See how my weak hands bleed ! " 

One bendeth low, and saith : 
" Lo ! My hands bleed likewise, and I am 

God. 
Come, heart of Mine ! wilt tread the path 
I trod, 

The desert way of death ? 
Come, bleeding hands ! and take 
My thorns that bring new toil and weari- 
ness, 
Days of grey pain, and nights of sore dis- 
tress, 

Come ! for My great love's sake. 

"Yet if thou fearest to come, 
Speak ! I can give thee fairest earthly things, 
Love, and sweet peace in shelter of love's 
wings, 

By pleasant paths of home, 

And thou wilt still be Mine. 

Choose thou thy path ! My way is dark, I 

know, 
Yet through the moaning wind, and rain, 
and snow 

My feet should go with thine." 

One groweth wan and grey, 
Dieth a space the trembling heart in him, 
Then he doth lift his weary eyes and dim, 



With ashen lips doth say : 
" With Thee the desert sands ! 
How could I turn from Thee, Thou flower 

of Pain ! 
Or trouble Thee with weepings loud and 
vain 

And wringing of the hands ? 

" If the rose were my share, 
And Thine the thorn, how could I lift mine 

eyes 
One day, in gold-green fields of Paradise, 
To Thine eyes dreamy fair 
That muse on Calvary ? 
Under the sad straight brows Thy gaze would 

say: 
' Now, heart ! in what dark hour of night 
or day 

Hast thou kept watch with Me ? '" 



AN ANSWER. 



I SAID, "The year hath nothing left to 
bring," 
And wearied of the grey November skies, 
For that I mourned for dead and vanished 
spring, 
And rose-lit summer's flowery argosies ; 
For that I yearned for golden primrose days, 
For tender skies, for thrush's passionate 
strain, 
To hear again, 'mid leafy springtide ways, 
The sweet small footsteps of the silvern 
rain. 

I said, " The glory of the year is gone, 

The very sunlight hath a tinge forlorn, 
The spectral trees loom, desolate and wan, 

Of their late regal robes bereft and shorn. 
Where the white lilies plumed their radiant 
heads, 
And the geranium flashed — a scarlet 
flame — 
Stretch now all brown and bare the garden 
beds, 
Dead are all fair sweet things since winter 
came." 



POEMS OF KATHARINE TYNAN. 



And as I spake, lo! in the glimmering West 

A paly streak of stormy sunset gold, 
And near me, in all beauteous colors drest 
The gentle flower that fears nor frost nor 
cold, 
The brave chrysanthemum; there, to my 
heart, 
Said I, with joy, " Though 'tis not always 
May, 
The bounteous mother tires not of her part, 
Her strong white hands bear gifts for 
every day." 



FRAANGELICO AT FIESOLE. 



Home through the pleasant olive woods at 

even 
He seest the patient milk-white oxen go; 
Without his lattice doves wheel to and fro, 
A great moon climbs the wan green fields of 

heaven. 
An hour since, the sun-veil whereon are 

graven 
Gold bells and pomegranates in scarlet show 
Parted, and lo! the city's spires of snow 
Flushed like an opal, and the streets gold 

paven! 
Then the night's purple fell and hid the rest, 
And this monk's eyes filled with the happy 

tears 
That come to him beholding all things fair: 
A bird's flight over wan skies to the nest ; 
The great sad eyes of beasts, the silk wheat 

ears, 
Flowers, or the gold dust on a baby's hair. 



In his small cell he hath high company,— 
The angels make it their abiding-place; 
Their grave eternal eyes 'neath brows of 

grace 
Watch him at work, their great wings silently 
Wrap him around with peace; and it may 

be 
That looking from his work a minute's space, 



The sudden blue eyes of an angel's face 
His happy startled eyes are raised to see. 
Down through the shadowy corridor they 

glide, 
Their wings auroral trailing soft and slow, 
Each still face like a moon-lit lily in June; 
They kiss with fair pale lips the canvas wide, 
Whereon his colours like dropped jewels 

glow 
Against a gold ground pale as the harvest 



EASTERTIDE. 



To me sweet Easter cometh fair and bright, 
Bringing exceeding joyaunce and delight, 
For the new time comes, clothed as a 
bride, 
And the sad grey days vanish utterly ; 
Comes the young Spring, knee-deep in shin- 
ing flowers, 
And the old earth rejoiceth through the 
hours: 
She hath forgotten her fairest ones that 
died, 
When the fierce winter blighted flower 
and tree. 

Somewhere while small glad waters croon a 

song, 
And a soft wind is captive all day long, 
I know the violet's feet are lately set, 
And the pale primrose star of hope 
hath risen. 
About the land the grave large hills are blue, 
And the great trees grow emerald green of 
hue, 
For now each curled babe-leaf begins to 
fret, 
Waking and stirring in its cradle-prison. 

Now from our slow delicious northern spring, 

In paschal days my thoughts are wandering 

Unto that Orient land, bloom- bright and 

warm; 

Where the dear Jesus walked in days of 

old; 



r-.'G 



POEMS OF KATHARINE TYNAN. 



I think all things, in these dim mystic days, 
Grew fair with full delight before his face, 
Bloomed the grey desert, azure grew the 
storm, 
And the skies shone in newer rose and 
gold. 

The air was sweet with music of harp-strings, 

And the white sudden flash of angels' wings, 

As the high sentinels passed that guarded 

Him. 

The birds sang faint for rapture in the 

sky, 

The small meek flowers about His pathway 

lay 
Flushed with desir'e that in some gracious 
day 
He in His healing hands might gather 
them, 
Or that beneath His feet their hearts 
might lie. 



OLIVIA AND DICK PRIMROSE. 

A kustic maiden, delicately fair, 

With sweet mute lips and eyes serene and 
mild, 
That look straight sunward, while with gen- 
tle air 

Clings to her side a little loving child, 
Linking a chain of daisies; this is all, 

And yet methinks old memories bestir 
At sight of this maid-lily, fair and tall, 

Sweet as the rose the dainty hands of her 
Enclose in careless chains and happy thrall. 

I see the gentle vicar, old and kind, 

The good house-mother, quick to blame 
and praise, 
All the quaint story rises to my mind, 
The meadow bank that bloomed with 
flowering days: 
And in the hay-field, now I seem to see 

Olivia stand with happy downcast eyes, 
Singing with simple girlish minstrelsy ; 



While o'er the ethereal blue of summer 
skies 
Long feathery lines of cloud float restfully. 

***** 
He sang of happy homes, who home had 
none, 
Of sweet hearth joys whose way was lone 
and bleak, 
And oft his voice rang out with truest tone 
When wintry winds froze tears upon his 
cheek. 
A deathless fount of joy was ever springing 
From out his bright child-nature pure and 
sweet, 
Soft comforting and surest healing bringing ; 
And when earth's sharpest thorns had 
pierced his feet 
His way was gladdened with his inward 
singing. 



THE LARK'S WAKING. 

passionate heart ! before the day is born, 
When the faint rose of dawn a shut bud lies, 
Dost thou not wait, hid in gold spears that 

rise 
Sweet and bejewelled with the dews of 

morn, 
Till the low wind of daybreak in the corn 
Moves all the silken ears with languorous 

sighs, 
And the fair sun rides up the Eastern skies, 
Clad in bright robes of state right kingly 

worn ? 
Then dost thou cleave the air on rapturous 

wing, 
Where the far east, with roseate splendours 

fraught, 
Tells that no more can night enshroud thy 

king, 
Or the pale stars his empire set at naught — 
Higher and higher, till the clear skies ring 
With the wild amorous greeting thou hast 

brought. 



POEMS OF KATHARINE TYNAN. 



CHARLES LAMB. 

Dear heart ! from dim Elizabethan days 

Surely thy feet strayed to our garish noon ; 

Thou shouldst have walked beneath a yel- 
lowing moon, 

In some old garden's green enchanted ways, 

With Herrick and Ben Jonson; while in 
praise 

Of his lady trilled the nightingale's full 
tune, — 

And he grown still, these sang, 'neath skies 
of June, 

That bent to hear, catches and roundelays. 

In fair converse, thou might'st have wan- 
dered 

With Burton's self, the master whose rare 
thought 

Makes Melancholy glad the heart like wine ; 

In thy earth-day, those high compeers were 
dead; 

How pleasant was their laughter, had they 
caught 

The sallies of thy humour, quaint and fine ! 



AUGUST OE JUNE. 

In the rich Autumn weather, 
When royal August visits the fair land, 
Coming with pomp and coloured pageantry, 
Elinging around him with a lavish hand, 
Gold on the gorse and purple on the heather, 
Across the land as far as eye can see, 
Under his tread all yellow grows the wheat, 
All purple every belt of perfumed clover, 
Purple and gold, fit carpet for his feet, 
This harmony of colouring and light, 
And all the happy space he passes over, 
Grows fruitful, fair, and pleasant to the sight. 

In these luxuriant days, 

Have we no sorrow for the fair June hours 

We thought so sweet, the skies we deemed 

so blue, 
The glad young world so prodigal of flowers, 
Of form most perfect, and most fair of hue ? 
Have we forgotten all the leaf -hung ways ? 



Ah ! never Autumn's wealth of golden 



Atones for joy that all the fresh June fills, 
The purple-hearted solemn passion-flowers, 
The slender shafts of moon-born lilies tall, 
The most fair paleness of the daffodils, 
The cool June sky which beauty sheds o'er 



FAINT-HEARTED. 

I stand where two roads part : 

Lord ! art Thou with me in the shadows 
here? 
I cannot lift my heavy eyesto see. 
Speak to me if Thou art ! 
I tremble, and my heart is cold with fear ; 
Dark is the way Thou has appointed me. 

From the bright face of day 

It winds far down a valley dark as death, 
And shards and thorns await my shrink- 
ing feet ; 
An icy mist and grey 

Comes to me, chilling me with awful 
breath ; 
How canst Thou say Thy yoke is light 
and sweet ? 

Nay, these are pale who go 

Down the grey shadows; each one, tired 
and worn, 
Bearing a cross that galleth him full 
sore; 
And blood of this doth flow, 

And that one's pallid brows are rayed with 
thorn, 
And eyes are blind with weeping ever- 



Still they press onward fast, 

And the shades compass them; now, far 
away, 
I see a great hill shaped like Calvary ; 
Will they come there at last ? 

A reflex from some far fair perfect day 
Touches the high clear faces goldenly. 



POEMS OF KATIIAFJNE TYNAN. 



Ah ! yonder path is fair, 

And musical with many singing birds, 
Large golden fruit and rainbow-coloured 
flowers 
The wayside branches bear ; 

The air is murmurous with sweet love- 
words, 
And hearts are singing through the 
happy hours. 

Nay, I shall look no more. 

Take Thou my hands between Thy firm 
fair hands 
And still their trembling, and I shall 
not weep. 
Some day, the journey o'er, 

My feet shall tread the still safe evening- 
lands, 
And Thou canst give to Thy beloved, 
sleep. 

And though Thou dost not speak, 

And the mists hide Thee, now I know 
Thy feet 
Will tread the path my feet walk 
wearily ; 
Some day the veil will break, 

And sudden looking up, mine eyes shall 
meet 
Thine eyes, and lo ! Thine arms shall 
gather me. 



THOKEAU AT WALDEN. 
i. 
A little log-hut in the woodland dim, 
A still lake, like a bit of summer sky, 
On the glad heart of which great lilies lie. 
"Ah!" he had said, "the Naiads, white 

of limb." 
In those green glooms fair shapes did come 

to him, 
He saw a Dryad's sheeny drapery 
Shimmer at dusk, he heard Pan pipe hereby 
A lusty strain to fauns and satyrs grim. 
For that he was fan- Nature's leal knight 



She loved him, taught him all her gram- 
marye, 

All the quaint secrets of her magic clime; 

He heard the unborn flowers' springing 
footsteps light, 

And the wind's whisper of the enchanted 
sea, 

And the birds sing of love, and pairing- 
time. 



Seeking this sage in fair fraternity 

Came Hawthorne here and Emerson, I know. 

happy woods, that watched them to and 

fro! 
Thrice happy woods, that hearkened to the 

three! 
Yet, my rare Thoreau! a thought comes 

to me 
Of one sweet soul you missed, who long ago 
When through Assisi's streets, with eyes 

aglow 
And worn meek face, and lips curved ten- 
derly. 
So for Ood's dumb things was this great 

heart stirred, 
Called he the happy birds his sisters sweet, 
The fish his brethren, blessed them, prayed 

with them. 
Now, my sweet-hearted Pagan ! had you 

heard, 
You would have wept upon his wounded 

feet, 
And craved a blessing from the hands of 

him. 



A SAD YEAK. 
1882. 



The last month being come, 
December, in sad guise of deathly white, 
I counted with sore heart the sons of light 
Whose wise lips had grown dumb 
Since the last New Year's morn, 
And thought Death's harvest had been full 
and wide, 



POEMS OF KATHARINE TYNAN. 



And fair and rich the grain his sweeping 
Had gathered to the barn. [scythe 

Three poets died in Spring — 
We wept the dear dead singer of the West, 
Who lay with sweet wet violets on his breast 

When leaves were bourgeoning; 

A poet spirit fled 
From Irish shores, in Resurrection days; 
• And England twined wan immortelles with 

For one beloved grey head.* [bays 

And, as the year went by, [feast — 

Death called our best and dearest to Ms 
Poet and artist, ruler, sage and priest, 

A goodly company. 

The Spring's flowers waxed pale, 
Summer cast rue for roses in her path, 
And the lone Autumn brought its meed of 

And sad was Winter's tale. [death, 

And so my heart was tired [gain. 

Counting the loss, and knowing not the 
In the year's cradles many a babe hath lain; 

And who shall be inspired 

To tell our hearts that weep 
What gifts the sweet small hands bring far- 
off years ? [tears 
We know but this — that " they who sow in 

In sinning joy shall reap." 



A SONG OF SUMMER. 
Oh, sweet it is in summer, 
When leaves are fair and long, 
To lie amid lush, scented grass, 
Where gold and grey the shadows pass, 
A swift, unresting throng; 
And hear low river voices 
Sing o'er the shining sands, 
That seem a glory garb to wear 
Of emerald and jacinth rare, 
The work of fairy hands; 
And see afar the mountains, heaven-kissed, 
Shine through the white rain's silvery- 
sheeted mist. 



Oh, fair the balmy morning, 

When gay the sun doth ride, 

And white plumes sail against the blue, 

And all the land is fresh with dew, 

And sweet the hay-fields wide! 

Yet fairer windless evening 

When the pale vesper star 

Parts her long veil of dusky hair, 

And looks with gentle eyes and fair 

From palaces afar, 

And sings the nightingale to tranced ski 

Of love and pain and all high mysteries. 



A BIRD'S SONG. 
Chill was the air, for yet the year was 
young, [with rain ; 

Wan was the sky, the clouds were fresh 
A bird, from where his small, soft nest was 
hung, 
Sang very joyously a tender strain. 
For he had seen, near where a giant oak 
Stretched out its Titan branches, strong 
and sure, 
Close-sheltered, in a quiet moss-grown nook, 
A dainty April garden bloom secure. 

And there he saw the sun-born crocus, tall, 

Shine out in 'broidered bravery of gold; 
The violet — no longer Winter's thrall — 

Begin her purple mantle to unfold. 
He saw the primrose star rise palely fair 

From where the mosses thickly, softly 
grow, 
And, delicately gleaming in the air, [snow. 

The snowdrop's fairy robe of green and 

And oh! with sudden flush of life and 

heat, 

The grey March world for him was 

charmed to May; [sweet, 

And then rang out in bird-notes, fresh and 

A jocund carol in the clear cold day. 
He heard the soft wind whisper from the 
West — 
The promise of the Summer's blossoming; 
And gleefully he sang from out his nest 
A herald welcome to the coming Spring. 



POEMS OF ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. 

(WILLIAM EDGAR.) 



ODE. 

We are the music makers, 

And we are the dreamers of dreams, 
Wandering by lone sea-breakers, 

And sitting by desolate streams; — 
World-losers and world-forsakers, 

On whom the pale moon gleams : 
Yet we are the movers and shakers 

Of the world for ever, it seems. 

With wonderful deathless ditties 
We build up the world's great cities, 

And out of a fabulous story 

We fashion an empire's glory : 
One man with a dream, at pleasure, 

Shall go forth and conquer a crown; 
And three with a new song's measure 

Can trample a kingdom down. 

We, in the ages lying 

In the buried past of the earth, 
Built Nineveh with our sighing, 

And Babel itself in our mirth; 
And o'erthrew them with prophesying 

To the old of the new world's worth; 
For each age is a dream that is dying, 

Or one that is coming to birth. 

A breath of our inspiration 
Is the life of each generation; 

A wondrous thing of our dreaming 

Unearthly, impossible seeming — 
The soldier, the king, and the peasant 

Are working together in one, 
Till our dream shall become their present, 

And their work in the world be done. 

They had no vision amazing 
Of the goodly house they are raising: 
They had no divine foreshowing 
Of the land to which they are going; 



But on one man's soul it hath broken, 

A light that doth not depart ; 
And his look, or a word he hath spoken, 

Wrought flame in another man's heart. 

And therefore to-day is thrilling 
With a past day's late fulfilling; 

And the multitudes are enlisted 

In the faith that their fathers resisted. 
And, scorning the dream of to-morrow, 

Are bringing to pass, as they may, 
In the world, for its joy or its sorrow, 

The dream that was scorned yesterday. 

But we, with our dreaming and singing, 

Ceaseless and sorrowless we! 
The glory about us clinging 

Of the glorious futures we see: 
Our souls with high music ringing, 

men ! it must ever be 
That we dwell, in our dreaming and singing, 

A little apart from ye. 

For we are afar with the dawning 

And the suns that are not yet high, 
And out of the infinite morning 

Intrepid you hear us cry — 
How, spite of your human scorning, 

Once more God's future draws nigh, 
And already goes forth the warning 

That ye of the past must die. 

Great hail! we cry to the comers 

From the dazzling unknown shore; 
Bring us hither your sun and your summers, 

And renew our world as of yore ; 
You shall teach us your song's new numbers, 

And things that we dreamed not before: 
Yea, in spite of a dreamer who slumbers, 

And a singer who sings no more. 



POEMS OF ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY (WILLIAM EDGAR). 



731 



SONG OF A FELLOW-WORKER. 

I found a fellow-worker when I deemed 

I toiled alone: 
My toil was fashioning thought and sound, 

and his was hewing stone; 
I worked in the palace of my brain, he in 

the common street, 
And it seemed his toil was great and hard, 

while mine was great and sweet. 

I said, fellow- worker, yea, for I am a 
worker too, 

The heart nigh fails me many a day, but 
how is it with you ? 

For while I toil great tears of joy will some- 
times fill my eyes, 

And when I form my perfect work it lives 
and never dies. 

I carve the marble of pure thought until 

the thought takes form, 
Until it gleams before my soul and makes 

the world grow warm; 
Until there comes the glorious voice and 

words that seem divine, 
And the music reaches all men's hearts and 

draws them into mine. 

And yet for days it seems my heart shall 

blossom never more, 
And the burden of my loneliness lies on me 

very sore: 
Therefore, hewer of the stones that pave 

base human ways, 
How canst thou bear the years till death, 

made of such thankless days ? 

Then he replied : Ere sunrise, when the 

pale lips of the day v 

Sent forth an earnest thrill of breath at 

warmth of the first ray, 
A great thought rose within me, how, while 

men asleep had lain, 
The thousand labours of the world had 

grown up once again. 

The sun grew on the world, and on my soul 

the thought grew too — 
A great appalling siin, to light my soul the 

long day through. 



I felt the world's whole burden for a moment, 

then began 
With man's gigantic strength to do the 

labour of one man. 

I went forth hastily, and lo! I met a hun- 
dred men, 

The worker with the chisel and the worker 
with the pen — 

The restless toilers after good, who sow and 
never reap, 

And one who maketh music for their souls 
that may not sleep. 

Each passed me with a dauntless look, and 

my undaunted eyes 
Were almost softened as they passed with 

tears that strove to rise 
At sight of all those labours, and because 

that every one, 
Ay, the greatest, would be greater if my 

little were undone. 

They passed me, having faith in me, and in 
our several ways, [days: 

Together we began to-day as on the other 

I felt their mighty hands at work, and as 
the day wore through, 

Perhaps they felt that even I was helping 
somewhat too: 



they felt, as with those hands they 

lifted mightily 
The burden once more laid upon the world 

so heavily, 
That while they nobly held it as each man 

can do and bear, 
It did not wholly fall my side as though no 

man were there. 

And so we toil together many a day from 

morn till night, 
I in the lower depths of life, they on the 

lovely height; 
For though the common stones are mine, 

and they have lofty cares, 
Their work begins where this leaves off, and 

mine is part of theirs. 

And 'tis not wholly mine or theirs I think 
of through the day, 






IT!'.! 



POEMS OF AiL'iTTJR O'SHAUGHNESSY ( V, 



EDUAK). 



But the great eternal thing we make to- 
gether, I and they; 

For in the sunset I behold a city that Man 
owns, 

Made fair with all their nobler toil, built of 
my common stones. 

Then noonward, as the task grows light 

with all the labour done, 
The single thought of all the day becomes 

a joyous one; 
For, rising in my heart at last, where it 

hath lain so long, 
It thrills up seeking for a voice, and grows 

almost a song. 



But when the evening comes, indeed, the 

words have taken wing, 
The thought sings in me still, but I am all 

too tired to sing; 
Therefore, you, my friend, who serve the 

world with minstrelsy, 
Among our fellow-workers' songs make that 

one song for me. 



A PARABLE OF GOOD DEEDS. 

A woman, sweet, but humble of estate, 
Had suddenly, by Providence or fate, 
Good fortune ; for a rich man made her wife, 
And raised her to a high and sumptuous 

life, 
With gold to spare and pleasurable things. 
Himself being great, in the employ of kings, 
Earning an ample wage and fair reward, 
He led his days like any lord, 
That made him rank among that country's 

lords; 
But little pity had he for the poor, 
Nor cared to help them : rather from his 

door 
Bidding his servants drive them shamefully, 
Till all knew better than from such as he 
To beg for food; and only year by year 
Some wanderer out of other lands drew 



His hated house. Riches corrode the heart 
That hath not its own sweetness set apart. 
But in his wife no inward change was 

wrought — 
Sweet she remained, and humble in her 

thought. 
And lo ! one day, when, at the king's behest. 
This man was gone, there came and asked 

for rest 
A certain traveller, sad and very worn 
With wayfaring, whose coat, ragged and 

torn 
By rock and bramble, showed the fashion 

strange 
Of distant countries where the seasons change 
A different way, and men and customs too 
Are strange; and though the woman hardly 

knew 
His manner of speech, seeing his weary 

face, 
She thought of toiling kinsfolk in the place 
Where she was born, and knew what heavi- 

• ness 
It was to fare all day beneath the stress 
Of burning suns, and never stay to slake 
The bitter thirst or lay one down to take 
A needful rest, the natural due of toil; 
So she dealt kindly, and gave wine and oil, 
And bade the stranger comfort him and stay 
And sleep beneath that roof upon his way: 
That hour the sweetness of her fettered soul 
Was like the stored-up honey of a whole 
Summer in one rich hive; and secretly 
She wept for joy to think that she might be 
Helpful to one in need. So Avhen her lord 
Returning chided her, she bore his word 
Meekly, and in her spirit had content. 

A long while after that, a poor man, bent 
And weak with hunger, wandered there, 

and prayed 
A little succour for God's sake, who made 
The rich and poor alike, and every man 
To love his fellow. But the servants ran 
And beat him from the house, along the 

lane, 
Back to the common road. Ah ! with what 

pain 
She saw it, but durst never raise her voice 



POEMS OF AT?THTnt O'RHATJGHNERSY (WILLIAM EDGAE). 



r:33 



Against her husband's rule! Then with no 

noise 
She went out from the house into the street, 
And, like a simple serving-maid, bought 

meat 
And bread, and hurried to and fro to find 
And feed the starving man. That day the 

kind, 
Pitiful heart within her ached full sore, 
And much she grieved, thus little and no 

more 
'Twas hers to do to ease so great a woe, 
As home she went again, that none might 

know. 
Then at another time it chanced that one, 
Whose brother, if 'twas truth he told, had 

run 
Into the den of robbers unawares, 
And lay a prisoner, sought that house of 

theirs, 
Having fared thus and thus with others 

first, 
To gather gold enough to go and burst 
His bonds. And lo! her husband gave him 

nought, 
But bade him lie again to those he caught 
With such a shallow tale. But she was 

stirred 
Greatly within; and rather would have 

erred, 
And been a trickster's dupe, than let depart, 
TJnhelped, a brother with a bleeding heart. 
And so when none was nigh, she gathered 

all 
The store of gifts and gold that she could 

call 
Her own, and gave it to the man. Ah, dear 
And blissful seemed that brother's thanks 

to hear. 

A good wife with her husband now some 

span 
Of years she dwelt, and had one fair child 

born, 
And life grew easier to her every morn ; 
For living with such sweetness day by day, 
The hardest heart will change, and put away 
Some of its meanness. So it did not fail 
But that her husband softened, and the tale 



Of poor folks' wrongs would strike upon his 

ear [hear. 

With a new sound that once he could not 

At length he died, and riches with him 
ceased; [released 

The king's pay came no more, and scarce 
From greedy creditors: when all was sold, 
The woman and the child with little gold, 
A meagre sum against hard want and shame, 
Went forth, to find the land from whence 

she came. 
The world was drear to them, and very hard, 
E'en as to others. Luckless or ill-starred 
Their wanderings seemed. One day their 

gold was spent, 
And helpless, in a sad bewilderment, 
The woman sat her down in sore distress 
In the lone horror of the 



Then the child cried for food, and soon 

again 
More piteously for drink, and all in vain. 

And the poor woman's heart of love was 

wrung 
With agony; all hopelessly she hung 
Her head upon her breast, and said "Ah me! 
Life is no longer, child, for such as we ; 
For I am penniless, and men give nought 
To those that cannot buy! " 

Then there was brought 
An answer in her ear which said, " Not so, 
But thou art even rich: look up and know! " 

Therewith she looked and saw three persons, 

fair 
And shining as God's angels, standing there 
Beside her in the way. 

One gave the .child 
Drink from a jewelled cup; one held high, 

piled 
With richest foods and fruit, a goodly tray, 
And bade him eat; the third did stoop and lay 
A purse upon her lap, the gold in which 
Sufficient was to make a poor man rich. 
And when o'erwhelmed with joy, and in 



POEMS OF ARTHUR O'SIIAUGHNESSY (WILLIAM EDGAR). 






Seeing the loveliness beyond all praise 
Of those three persons, on her knees she sank 
To worship them for angels, and to thank 
The God that sent them to her in her need, 
They said, "0 woman, kneel not to us in- 
deed, 
But thank thyself; for we were wrought 

by thee, 
And this the loveliness that thou dost see, 
Half wondering, is thine own, the very light 
And beauty of thy soul, for just so bright 
We are as thou didst make us; and at last 
Dost thou not know us ? is all memory past 
Of three good deeds that in prosperity 
Thou didst? Those three good deeds of 
thine are we." 

And then they walked before her, and she 
1 went 

And found her home, and lived in great 
content. 



A FALLEN HERO. 

Thei found him dead upon the battle-field. 
One said, "A hard man, and with scarce a 
heart; 
There lay his strength, a man who could not 
yield. 
For, after all, too many, playing a part 
Of judge or warrior in the world, strong- 
armed, 
Or with the mental sinews stoutly set 
To the far-reaching thought, have faltered, 
charmed 
To softness and half purpose when they 
met 
The sweet appeal of individual lives, 

Or vanquished by the look of wounded 
foes. 
This man was iron. "Who has striven strives 
Where the cause leads him; where that 
is, who knows ? 

Content with partial good the cooler crowd, 

Using its heroes, step aside, well served, 
Waits for another; and the applause, so 
loud, 



So general once, grows fainter — more re- 
served 
Around his steps who, holding first the flag 

In a well-honoured fight, is left to wage 
The war alone, above him a red rag 

With now his name upon it. So, 'twas a 
rage 
Urged this man on; good, evil, grew but in 
dreams, 
The changeless opposites; and to com~ 
rades, shamed 
Or timely fallen away, the man now seems 
Well-nigh the contrary of the thing he 
named." 

Another said, "Ay, seems to such as these 
Who fought for half the goal — the goal 
was good, 
Immense, remote, a blessing that may ease 
The world some ages hence; half-way 
was food, 
Content, a crumb for lesser lives to gain ■ 
He gained and spurned it to them. For 
the rest, 
The future man may count his death not 
vain, 
Finding him in Time's strata, as with 
crest 
Frenzied and straining jaws and limbs, some 
old 
Imbedded dragon lies defiant still 
In an unfinished fight. If such pass cold 
Mid the dwarfed folk whose generations 
fill 
Their striding steps, their soul is all the sun 
Gilding the dawn and lengthening out the 
span 
Of yet unrisen days, when men may run 
To greater heights and distances of man." 

A third said, " Yet to fall, as this one hath, 

Not with the earlier laurel newly earned, 

Nor having cleared the later doubtful path, 

But with a red sword firmly clutched a: 

turned 

Against the heart of his time, is no fair fa 

He who now drives a hundred men 

death [hat 

Is bound to show the thousand saved; else 



POEMS OF ARTHUR O'SIIAUGHNESSY (WILLIAM EDGAR). 



rss 



And scorn will quickly blow him such a 
breath 
No flowers will grow about his memory, 

No goodly praise sit well upon his name. 

The men, who for his shadow could not see 

The peaceful sun of half their days, cry 

shame 

Against him; lives he stinted of their love, 

Denying his own, lopping the tender 

boughs 

And leaflets that the trunk might rise above 

Its fellows, spoil the glory on his brows, 
Accuse him just as surely with their tears 
And ruin as with words that seemed too 
weak. 

" Better, perhaps, out of the hopes and fears 
That round the generation's life, to speak 
And win assent of every lesser man, 

Or, fighting, only wrest from that dark 
foe, 
The Future, jealous holding all she can 
For hers unborn, some moderate trophy, 
no 
Abiding portion; dazzled, men will praise, 
While that great gift the dream-led seeker 
strives [raise 

To gain and give them, scarcely they may 
Their hearts to the great love of all their 
lives." 

So spake they round one fallen in a fight, 
Whence most had turned away, deeming 
the good 
A doubtful one, the further path too rife 
With thrusts across the common ground, 
where stood 
Friend and foe mingled. Half praise, almost 
blame 
One and another uttered, as they gazed 
Down at the dead set face, and named the 
name 
That once upon their foremost banner 
blazed, 
But late flashed fitfully on distant quest 
Strained past endurance. Bitterness still 
wrought 
Somewhat within then- hearts, or memory 
prest 



Maybe upon them with some late look 
fraught 
With passing scorn, and these — the feet that 
rushed 
Onward, too reckless of weak lives that 
hide 
Along the wayside of the world — had 
crushed. 

But lo ! a woman wrung her hands and cried, 

"Ah, my beloved ! ah, the good, the 

true ! " 

And clasped him lying on the ground, and 

kept 

Her arms about him there. She only knew 

The passion of the man, and when he wept. 



BLACK MARBLE. 

Sick of pale European beauties, spoiled 

By false religions, all the cant of priests 
And mimic virtues, far away I toiled 

In lawless lands, with savage men and 
beas fo 
Across the bloom-hung forest, in the way 
Widened by lions or where the winding 
snake 
Had pierced, I counted not each night and 
day, 
Till, gazing through a flower-encumbered 
brake, 
I crouched down like a panther watching 
prey — 
Black Venus stood beside a sultry lake. 

The naked negress raised on high her arms. 
Round as palm-saplings; cup-shaped either 
breast, 
Unchecked by needless shames or cold 
alarms, 
Swelled, like a burning mountain, with 
the zest 
Of inward life, and tipped itself with fire: 
Fashioned to crush a lover or a foe, 
Her proud limbs owned their strength, 
her waist its span, 



73G POEMS OF KEV. 


ABEAM J. RYAN. 


Her fearless form its faultless curves, 
lo!— 
The lion and the serpent and the n 
Watched her the while with each his 
desire. 


And 

nan 
own 


In the old house where we grew 

From childhood up, the days were dreams, 
The summers had unwonted gleams. 

The sun a warmer radiance threw 
Upon the stair. Alas ! it seems 

All different in the new ! 


IN THE OLD HOUSE. 
In the old house where we dwelt 

No care had come, no grief we knew. 
No memory of the Past we felt, 
No doubt assailed us when we knelt ; 

It is not so in the new. 


Our mother still could sing the strain 

In earlier days we listened to; 

The white threads in her hair were few, 
She seldom sighed or suffered pain. 
Oh, for the old house back again ! 

It is not so in the new. 



POEMS OF REV. ABRAM J. RYAN, 

"THE POET-PRIEST OE THE SOUTH." 



THE CONQUERED BANNER, 

Fuel that Banner, for 'tis weary; 
Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary; 

Furl it, fold it, it is best; 
For there's not a man to wave it, 
And there's not a sword to save it, 
And there's not one left to lave it 
In the blood which heroes gave it; 
And its foes now scorn and brave it; 

Furl it, hide it— let it rest! 

Take that Banner down! 'tis tattered; 
Broken is its staff and shattered ; 
And the valiant hosts are scattered 

Over whom it floated high. 
Oh! 'tis hard for us to fold it; 
Hard to think there's none to hold it; 
Hard that those who once unrolled it 

Now must furl it with a sigh. 



Furl that Banner! furl it sadly! 
Once ten thousands hailed it gladly, 
And ten thousands wildly, madly, 

Swore it should forever wave; 
Swore that foeman's sword should never 
Hearts like theirs entwined dissever, 
Till that flag should float forever 

O'er their freedom or their grave! 

Furl it ! for the hands that grasped it, 
And the hearts that fondly clasped it, 

Cold and dead are lying low; 
And that Banner — it is trailing! 
While around it sounds the wailing 

Of its people in their woe. 

For, though conquered, they adore it ! 
Love the cold, dead hands that bore it ! 
Weep for those who fell before it ! 









POEMS OF REV. ABRAM J. RYAN. 



Pardon those who trailed and tore it ! 
But, oh ! wildly they deplore it, 
Now who furl and fold it so. 

Furl that Banner! True, 'tis gory, 
Yet 'tis wreathed around with glory, 
And 'twill live in song and story, 

Though its folds are in the dust: 
For its fame on brightest pages, 
Penned by poets and by sages, 
Shall go sounding down the ages — 

Furl its folds though now we must. 

Furl that Banner, softly, slowly ! 
Treat it gently — it is holy — 

For it droops above the dead. 
Touch it not — -unfold it never, 
Let it droop there, furled forever, 

For its people's hopes are dead! 



SENTINEL SONGS. 

When falls the soldier brave, 

Dead at the feet of wrong, 
The poet sings and guards his grave 

With sentinels of song. 

Songs, march! he gives command, 

Keep faithful watch and true; 
The living and dead of the conquered land 

Have now no guards save you. 

Gray ballads! mark ye well! 

Thrice holy is your trust ! 
Go! halt by the fields where warriors fell; 

Rest arms! and guard their dust. 

List! Songs! your watch is long, 

The soldiers' guard was brief ; 
Whilst right is right, and wrong is wrong, 

Ye may not seek relief. 

Go! wearing the gray of grief ! 

Go! watch o'er the dead in gray! 
Go! guard the private and guard the chief, 

And sentinel their clay! 
47 



And the songs, in stately rhyme 
And with softly-sounding tread, 

Go forth, to watch for a time — a time- 
Where sleep the 



And the songs, like funeral dirge, 

In music soft and low, 
Sing round the graves, whilst hot tears surge 

From hearts that are homes of woe. 

What tho' no sculptured shaft 

Immortalize each brave ? 
What tho' no monument epitaphed 

Be built above each grave ? 

When marble wears away 

And monuments are dust, 
The songs that guard our soldiers' clay 

Will still fulfill their trust. 

With lifted head and steady tread, 

Like stars that guard the skies, 
Go watch each bed where rest the dead,. 

Brave songs, with sleepless eyes. 
* * * * 

When falls the cause of Right, 

The poet grasps his pen, 
And in gleaming letters of living light 

Transmits the truth to men. 

Go! Songs! he says who sings; 

Go! tell the world this tale; 
Bear it afar on your tireless wings; 

The Right will yet prevail. 

Songs! sound like the thunder's breath! 

Boom o'er the world and say: 
Brave men may die — Right has no death! ; 

Truth never shall pass away! | 

Go! sing thro' a nation's sighs! 

Go! sob thro' a people's tears! 
Sweep the horizons of all the skies, 

And throb through a thousand years!. 

And the songs, with brave, sad face, 

Go proudly down their way, 
Wailing the loss of a conquered race 

And waiting an Easter-day. 



I 



POEMS OF KEY. ABRAM J. RYAN. 



Away! away! like the birds, 

They soar in their flight sublime; 

And the waving wings of the poet's words 
Flash down to the end of time. 

When the flag of justice fails, 
Ere its folds have yet been furled, 

The poet waves its folds in wails 
That flutter o'er the world. 



HAROH OF THE DEATHLESS DEAD. 

' Gather the sacred dust 

Of the warriors tried and true, 
Who bore the flag of a Nation's trust 
And fell in a cause, though lost, still just, 
And died for me and you. 

1 Gather them one and all, 

From the private to the chief, 
1 Come they from hovel or princely hall, 
They fell for us, and for them should fall 

The tears of a Nation's grief. 

Gather the corpses strewn 

O'er mauy a battle plain; 
From many a grave that lies so lone, 
Without a name and without a stone, 

Gather the Southern slain. 

We care not whence they came 

Dear in their lifeless clay! 
Whether unknown, or known to fame, 
Their cause and country still the same; 

They died — and wore the Gray. 

Wherever the brave have died, 

They should not rest apart; 
Living, they struggled side by side, 
Why should the hand of Death divide 

A single heart from heart ? 

Gather their scattered clay, 

Wherever it may rest; 
Just as they marched to the bloody fray, 
Just as they fell on the battle day, 

Bury them breast to 



The foeman need not dread 

This gathering of the brave; 
Without sword or flag, and with soundless 

tread, 
We muster once more our deathless dead, 

Out of each lonely grave. 

The foeman need not frown, 

They all are powerless now; 
We gather them here and we lay them down, 
And tears and prayers are the only crown 

We bring to wreathe each brow. 

And the dead thus meet the dead, 

While the living o'er them weep; 
And the men by Lee and Stonewall led, 
And the hearts that once together bled, 
Together still shall sleep. 



SONG OF THE MYSTIC. 

I walk down the Valley of Silence- 
Down the dim, voiceless valley- 

And I hear not the fall of a footstep 
Around me, save God's and my own; 

And the hush of my heart is as holy 
As hovers where angels have flown! 

Long ago was I weary of voices 

Whose music my heart could not win; 

Long ago was I weary of noises 

That fretted my soul with their din; 

Long ago was I weary of places 

Where I met but the human — and sin. 

I walked in the world with the worldly; 

I craved what the world never gave; 
And I said: " In the world each Ideal, 

That shines like a star on life's wave, 
Is wrecked on the shores of the Real, 

And sleeps like a dream in a grave." 

And still did I pine for the Perfect, 

And still found the False with the True; 

I sought 'mid the Human for Heaven, 
But caught a mere glimpse of its Blue: 

And I wept when the clouds of the Mortal 
Veiled even that glimpse from my view. 



POEMS OF EEV. ABKAM J. BYAN. 



And I toiled on, heart-tired of the Human; 

And I moaned 'mid the mazes of men; 
Till I knelt, long ago, at an altar 

And I heard a voice call me : — since then 
I walk down the Valley of Silence 

That lies far heyond mortal ken. 

Do you ask what I found in the Valley ? 

'Tis my Trysting Place with the Divine. 
And I fell at the feet of the Holy, 

And ahove me a voice said: " Be mine." 
And there arose from the depths of my spirit 

An echo — " My heart shall be thine." 

Do you ask how I live in the Valley? 

I weep — and I dream — and I pray. - 
But my tears are as sweet as the dewdrops 

That fall on the roses in May; 
And my prayer, like a perfume from Censers, 

Ascendeth to God night and day. 

In the hush of the Valley of Silence 
I dream all the songs that I sing; 

And the music floats down the dim Valley, 
Till each finds a word for a wing, 

That to hearts, like the Dove of the Deluge, 
A message of Peace they may bring. 

But far on the deep there are billows 
That never shall break on the beach; 

And I have heard songs in the Silence, 
That never shall float into speech; 

And I have had dreams in the Valley, 
Too lofty for language to reach. 

And I have seen Thoughts in the Valley — 
Ah! me, how my spirit was stirred! 

And they wear holy veils on their faces, 
Their footsteps can scarcely be heard: 

They pass through the Valley like Virgins, 
Too pure for the touch of a word ! 

Do you ask me the place of the Valley, 
■ Ye hearts that are harrowed by Care ? 
It lieth afar between mountains 

And God and His angels are there: 
And one is the dark mount of Sorrow, 

And one the bright mountain of Prayer! 



LINES— 1875. 

Go down where the wavelets are kissing the 

shore, 
And ask of them why do they sigh ? 
The poets have asked them a thousand times 

o'er, 
But they're kissing the shore as they kissed 

it before. 
And they're sighing to-day and they'll sigh 

evermore. [reply, 

Ask them what ails them: they will not 
But they'll sigh on forever and never tell why! 
Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ? [I. 
The waves will not answer you; neither shall 

Go stand on the beach of the blue boundless 

deep, 
When the night stars are gleaming on high, 
And hear how the billows are moaning in 

sleep, 
On the low-lying strand by the surge-beaten 

steep. [sweep. 

They're moaning forever wherever they 
Ask them what ails them: they never reply; 
They moan, and so sadly, but will not tell 

why ! 
Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ? 
The waves will not answer you; neither 

shall I. 



Go list to the breeze at the waning of day, 
When it passes and murmurs " Good-bye." 
The dear little breeze — how it wishes to stay 
Where the flowers are in bloom, where the 

singing birds play; [way. 

How it sighs when it flies on its wearisome 
Ask it what ails it; it will not reply, 
Its voice is a sad one, it never told why. 
Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ? 
The breeze will, not answer you; neither 

shall I. 

Go watch the wild blasts as they spring from 

their lair, 
When the shout of the storm rends the sky; 
They rush o'er the earth and they ride thro' 

the air 
And they blight with their breath all the 

lovely and fair, 



r-to 



POEMS OF REV. ABEAM J. RYAN. 



And they groan like the ghosts in the " land 

of despair." 
Ask them what ails them: they never reply; 
Their voices are mournful, they will not tell 

why. 
Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ? 
The blasts will not answer you; neither shall 

I. 

Go stand on the rivulet's lily-fringed side, 

Or list where the rivers rush by; 

The streamlets which forest trees shadow 

and hide, 
And the rivers that roll in their oceanward 

tide, 
Are moaning forever wherever they glide; 
Ask them what ails them: they will not 

reply. 
On — sad-voiced— they flow, but they never 

tell why. 
Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ? 
Earth's streams will not answer you; neither 

shall I. 

Go list to the voices of air, earth and sea, 
And the voices that sound in the sky; 
Their songs may be joyful to some, but to me 
There's a sigh in each chord and a sigh in 

each key, 
And thousands of sighs swell their grand 

melody. 
Ask them what ails them: they will not 

reply. 
They sigh — sigh forever — but never tell why. 
Why does your poetry sound like a sigh ? 
Their lips will not answer you; neither will 

I! 



THE SONG OF THE DEATHLESS 
VOICE. 

' Twas the dusky Hallowe'en — ■ 
Hour of fairy and of wraith, 
When in many a dim-lit green, 
'Neath the stars' prophetic sheen 
As the olden legend saith, 
All the future may be seen, — 



And when, — an older story hath — 
Whate'er in life hath ever been 
Loveful, hopeful, or of wrath, 
Cometh back upon our path. 
I was dreaming in my room, 
' Mid the shadows, — still as they; 
Night, in veil of woven gloom 
Wept and trailed her tresses gray 
O'er her fair, dead sister — Day. 
To me from some far-away 
Crept a voice — or seemed to creep — 
As a wave-child of the deep, 
Frightened by the wild storm's roar. 
Creeps low-sighing to the shore. 
Very low and very lone 
Came the voice with song of moan. 
This, weak-sung in weaker word, 
Is the song that night I heard. 
* * * 

How long, alas ! How long ! 
How long shall the Celt chant the sad song 
of hope 
That a sunrise may break on the long 
starless night of our past ? 
How long shall we wander and wait on the 
desolate slope 
Of Tabors that promise our Transfigura- 
tion at last ? 

How long, Lord ! How long ! 

How long, Fate ! How long ! 
How long shall our sunburst reflect but the 
sunset of Right 
When gloaming still lights the dim imme- 
morial years? 
How long shall our harp's strings, like winds 
that are wearied of night, 
Sound sadder than moanings in tones all 
a-trembling with tears ? 
How long, Lord! How long! 

How long, Eight ! How long! 
How long shall our banner, the brightest that 
ever did flame 
In battle with wrong, droop furled like a 
flag o'er a grave ? 
How long shall we be but a nation with only 
a name 



POEMS OF EEV. ABEAM J. KYAN. 



Whose history clanks with the sounds of 
the chains that enslave ? 

How long, Lord! How long! 

How long! Alas, how long! 
How long shall our isle be a Golgotha, out 
in the sea 
With a Cross in the dark, — oh, when shall 
our Good Friday close ? 
How long shall thy sea that beats round thee 
bring only to thee 
The wailings, Erin! that float down the 
waves of thy woes ? 
How long, Lord! How long! 

How long! Alas, how long! 
How long shall the cry of the wronged, 
Freedom! for thee 
Ascend all in vain from the valleys of sor- 
row below ? 
How long ere the dawn of the day in the 
ages to be 
When the Celt will forgive, — or else tread 
on the heart of his foe ? 

How long, Lord ! How long! 
* * * 

Whence came the voice ? Around me gray 
silences fall: 
And without in the gloom not a sound is 
astir 'neath the sky; 
And who is the singer? Or hear I a singer 
at all?- 
Or, hush ! Is't my heart athrill with some 
deathless old cry ? 

Ah! blood forgets not in its flowing its fore- 
fathers' wrongs — 
They are the heart's trust, from which 
we may ne'er be released: 
Blood keeps in its throbs the echoes of all 
the old songs, 
And sings them the best when it flows 
thro' the heart of a priest. 

Am I not in my blood as old as the race 
whence I sprung ? 
In the cells of my heart feel I not all its 
ebb and its flow ? 



And old as our race is, is it not still forever 
as young 
As the youngest of Celts in whose breast 
Erin's love is aglow ? 

The blood of a race that is wronged beats the 
longest of all; 
For long as the wrong lasts, each drop of 
it quivers with wrath: 
And sure as the race lives — no matter what 
fates may befall 
There's a Voice with a Song that forever 
is haunting its path. 

Aye, this very hand that trembles thro' this 
very line 
Lay hid, ages gone, in the hand of some 
forefather-Celt, 
With a sword in its grasp — if stronger not 
ti-uer than mine — 
And I feel, with my pen, what the old 
hero's sworded-hand felt — 

The heat of the hate that flashed into flames 
against wrong — 
The thrill of the hope that rushed like a 
storm on the foe; 
And the sheen of that sword is hid in the 
sheath of the song 
As sure as I feel thro' my veins the pure 
Celtic blood flow. 

The ties of our blood have been strained o'er 
thousands of years, 
And still are not severed, how mighty 
soever the strain; 
The chalice of time o'erflows with the streams 
of our tears, — 
Yet just as the shamrocks, to bloom, need 
the clouds and their rain, 

The faith of our fathers, our hopes and the 
love of our isle 
Need the rain of our hearts that falls from 
our grief-clouded eyes 
To keep them in bloom, while for ages we 
wait for the smile 
Of Freedom that some day — ah, some day! 
shall light Erin's skies. 



r42 



POEMS OF FANNY PAKNELL. 



Our dead are not dead who have gone, long 
ago, to their rest ; 
They are living in us whose glorious race 
will not die — 
Their hrave buried hearts are still beating on 
in each breast 
Of the child of each Celt in each clime 
' neath the infinite sky. 



Many days yet to come may be dark as the 
days that are past, 
Many voices may hush, — while the great 
years sweep patiently by. 
But the voice of our race shall live sounding 
down to the last, 
And our blood is the bard of the song that 
never shall die. 



POEMS OF FANNY PARNELL 



IRELAND, MOTHER! 

Vein of my heart, light of mine eyes, 
Pulse of my life, star of my skies, 
Dimmed is thy beauty, sad are thy sighs, 
Fairest and saddest, what shall I do for thee ? 
Ireland, mother! 

Vain, ah, vain is a woman's prayer; 
Vain is a woman's hot despair; 
Naught can she do, naught can she dare, — 
I am a woman, I can do naught for thee; 

Ireland, mother! 

Hast thou not sons, like the ocean-sands ? 
Hast thou not sons with brave hearts and 



Hast thou not heirs for thy broad, bright 

lands ? 
What have they done, — or what will they do 

for thee ? 

Ireland, mother! 

Were I a man from thy glorious womb, 
I'd hurl the stone from thy living tomb; 
Thy grief should be joy, and light thy gloom, 



The rose should gleam 'mid thy golden 

broom, 
Thy marish wastes should blossom and 

bloom; 
I'd smite thy foes with thy own long doom, 
While God's heaped judgments should round 

them loom; 
Were I a man, lo! this would I do for thee, 
Ireland, mother! 



SHE IS NOT DEAD! 
' Ireland is a corpse on the disseeting-table." 

Who said that thou wast dead, darling of 

my heart ? 

My fairest one amid the daughters, 

My lily brooding on the waters, — 

Who said that thou wast dead, and I from 

thee must part ? 

Who said that thou wast dead, and called me 
from thy side ? 
Bright saint and queen of my devotion, 



POEMS OF FANNY PAENELL. 



M3 



My spotless, priceless pearl of ocean, — 
My bitter ban shall rest upon the knaves who 
lied! 

They said that thou wast dead, tho' fair thy 
beauty shone, 
My sweet Undine gently gleaming 
Thro' crystal mists of tear-drops stream- 
ing, 
That catch the iris-tints from Aphrodite's 



They said that thou wast dead, oh, chosen 

one of Fate, — 

My sovereign lady proud and peerless, 

My swan-like Valkyr wild and fearless, 

My deathless maid whose soul recks not for 

love or hate. 

They said that thou wast dead, they wiled me 
far from thee; 
But ah! my heart was sadly pining, — 
Its tendrils still around thee twining, 
Drew back my soul in bonds, as uoonbeams 
draw the sea. 

And then I saw that still the life was in thine 
eyes, ' 
sweet ! most loved, most sorrow-laden! 
The flashes from thy ravished Aidenn 
Played o'er thy face like lightnings o'er the 
twilight skies. 

And then I knew at last that thou could'st 
never die, 
O sister of the great Immortals, 
That standest hard by Freedom's portals, 
Until an unseen Hand shall open from on 
high. 

Lo ! roses red thy lovers strew before thy 
shrine, 
Dipped deep in blood from heart-veins 

flowing, 
"With hues of death and passion glowing, 
Yet thou regardest not, for thou wast born 
divine. 



Lo! roses white thy lovers strew before thy 

feet, 

Bright blossoms of pure lives and holy; 

But thy firm eyes look upward solely, — 

Our love can bring no offerings that for thee 

are meet. 

Thou art our queen, — we bare our bosoms to 
thy tread; 
Thy empty throne for thee is waiting; 
Tread on, all heedless still of love or hat- 
ing! 
Enough for us who kneel, to know thou art 
not dead. 



IRELAND. 



She turns and tosses on her couch of pain, 
"Where cruel hands have stretched her, 
spent and worn; 

And by her side the weary watchers strain 
Sad eyes to catch a gleam of halting morn. 

She moans, — and every moan a true heart 

rends, — 

She sighs, — the fever hot in every limb, — 

" Ah, God, whose love the humblest wretch 

befriends, 

Bid daylight break upon my eyelids dim! " 

Oh! long the night! — and many a time and 
oft, 
We've thought, with throbbing pulse, — 
" The dawn draws nigh! " 
We've seen the clouds, illusive, break aloft, 
And then with tenfold blackness mock 
the eye. 

Oh, long the night, and fierce the fever's- 

pain! 

Once more we see pale glimmerings, far 

off, play; — 

We've hoped so oft, we dare not hope again, — 

And yet, — if this indeed, at last, were Day?' 



POEMS OF FANNY PARNELL. 



WHAT SHALL WE WEEP FOR? 

"Woe is me now! for my soul is wearied be- 
cause of murderers. — Jeremiah. 

Shall we weep for thee, my mother, — 
shall we weep for the martyred land, — 

For the queen that is prone in ashes, struck 
clown by a robber's hand ? 

Shall we weep for the fair green banner, 
drowned deep in a sea of tears, — 

For the golden harp that is broken, and 
dumb with the rust of years? 



Shall we weep for the children 

for those crushed clown to the brute, — 
Crushed out of the semblance of human, 

while Justice sits blind and mute ? 

For the peasant that died in torments, — for 
the hero that battling fell, 

For the martyr that slowly rotted in the 
voiceless dungeon cell ? 

For the famine, the filth, and fever, the lash, 
and the pitchcap, and swprd, 

For the homeless, coffinless corpses, flung 
out on their native sward? 

For the strong man that crept from prison, 
old, helpless, and blind, to die, 

For the soldier that bled for England, 'neath 
many a hostile sky, — 



Whom England, delighting to honor, gifts of 

chains and a dungeon gave, 
Till his brave heart broke with its anguish, 
/ and he staggered from cell to grave ? 

Shall we weep for these, my brothers ?— 
my brothers in pain and in love, — 

For these who have suffered and perished, 
and shine as the stars above ? 

Lo ! yonder, like white-hot beacons, they 
light up the path we should tread; 

Pure flames on the heavenly watch-towers, — 
shall we weep for those happy dead ? 



Nay, not for mother or children, nor for 

centuries' woes we'll weep, 
But we'll weep for the vengeance coming, 

that waits, but shall never sleep. 

Let us weep for the hand that's bloody with 

many an innocent life; 
Let us weep for those who hswe trampled 

the defenceless down in the strife; 

For the heart the Lord hath hardened, with 
triumph, and spoil, and crown, 

For the robber whose plundered kingdoms 
never see the sun go down; 

For the Scarlet Woman that's drunken with 
the blood and tears of her slaves, 

Who goes forth to slay with a psalm-tune, 
and builds her churches on graves; 

For her sons who rush out to murder, and 
return with plunder and prayer, 

Lifting up to the gentle Saviour, the red 
hands that never spare; 

For these, and the doom that is on them, 
the spectre ghastly and gray, 

Looming far in the haunted future, where 
Nemesis waits her prey — 

Let us weep, let us weep, my brothers! We 
have heard but a whisper fall, 

But we know the voice of the tempest, be it 
ever so still and small. 

To their God of Cant and Slaughter, they 
shall cry in their hour of need, 

But the true God shall rise and break them 
as one that breaketh a reed. 

Weep not for the wronged, but the wronger, 
— the despot whom God hath cursed — 

Holding off awhile till the floodgates of His 
gathering wrath have burst, 

For the wronged a moment's anguish, — for 
the wronger damnation deep, — 

He that soweth the wind shall surely for 
harvest the whirlwind reap. 



POEMS OF FANNY PAKNELL. 



MICHAEL DAVITT. 

Out from the grip of the slayer, 

Out from the jaws of hate, 
Out from the de7i of bloodhounds, 

Out from Gehenna's gate; 
Out from the felon's bondage, 
Out from the dungeon keep, 
Out from the valley of shadows, 

Out from the starless deep, 
Out from the purging tortures, 

Out from the sorrow and stress, 
Out from the roaring furnace, 
Out from the trodden press,— 
He has come for a savior of men, 

He has come on a mission of glory, 
He has come to tell us again 

The olden evangelist's story ! 
Now blessed the poor upon earth, 

Now blessed the hungry and weeping. 
For they shall have plenty for dearth, 

"With joy returning and reaping; 
Now blessed the outcast and slave, 

Now blessed the scorned and the hated, 
The knights of the Gibbet and Grave, 

The mourners in ashes prostrated; 
For they shall arise from the dust, 

Though scattered and buried for seons; 

They shall know that Jehovah is just, — 

From Golgotha coming with 



Back to the grip of the slayer, 

Back to the jaws of hate, 
Back to the den of bloodhounds, 

Back to Gehenna's gate; 
Back to the dungeon's threshold — 

Now may Christ the brave soul keep! — 
Back to the valley of shadows, 

Back to the starless deep, 
Back to the doom of martyrs, 

Back to the sorrow and stress, 
Back to the fiery furnace, 
Back to the bloody press, — 
He has gone for a leader of men, 

lie has gone on a kingly mission, [pen, 
With the prophet's fate-driven tongue and 

Heralding all our hopes' fruition. 
Thrice blessed the looser of chains ! 

Thrice blessed the friend of the friendless ! 



The High-Priest whom Heaven ordains 

To sacrifice bitter and endless. 
Thrice blessed the loved of the vile, 

The mean and the abject and lowly ! 
On him shall the Highest One smile, 

The earth that he treads shall be holy; 
Thrice blessed the consecrate hands 

That beckon to Liberty's portal 
The poor and despised of the lands, 

'Mid raptures and splendors immortal ! 

Out of the slime and the squalor, 
Out of the slough of despond, 
Out of the yoke of Egypt, 

Out of the gyve and bond; 

Oat of the Stygian darkness, 

Out of the place of tombs, 

Out of the pitiful blindness, 

Out of the gulfs and glooms, 
Up to the heights of freedom, 

Up to the hills of light, 
Up to the holy places, 

Where the dim eyes see aright, — 
Up to the glory man hides from man, 

Up to the banned and shrouded altar, 
Bending the veil and breaking the ban, 

With the hands that shall never falter. 
Up to the truth in its inmost shrine, 

Leading the serfs that crouch and grovel, 
Turning the troubled waters to wine, 

Building a fane in every hovel; 
Ever and ever facing the day, 

Up and on to the radiance o'er him, 
He has gone to tread the martyr's way, 
With the martyr's cross before him; 
But the great white Star of Freedom's birth, 

Shall arise for the darkest nation, 
And the bound, the blind, the maimed of 
earth, 
From his ashes shall draw salvation. 



TO MY FELLOW-WOMEN. 

last at the Cross, and first at the Grave, 
and first at the Rising too ! 

Is there nothing left for your hearts to feel, 
or left for your hands to do ? 



r4G 



POEMS OF FANNY PARNELL. 



Have you lost your crown of the days of old, 
as the mates of noble men ? 

Are you faint and fearful and witless now, 
who were bold as the she-lions then ? 

Are you playthings now, who were heroes' 
guides? are you dolls, who were 
queens on earth ? 

Have you stepped with a simper from your 
thrones, and strangled your souls at 
birth? 

Priestess and prophetess shrined of yore, — 
have you naught of their breath di- 
vine? 

Vala of North and Sybil of South, — have 
they perished in all their line ? 

Have you heard of the warrior queens who 

shed on your country's dawn a glow ? 
Of Scota and Eire and Meabhdh, who flash 

from the shadows of long ago? — 
When the mothers of Erin fed their babes 

from the sword- point bright and bare, 
And the Druidess flew in the battle's van, by 

the burning torches' glare ? 

Have you heard of the maiden saints who 
bore the Lamp of the Holy Chrism, 

While the glory streamed from their hal- 
lowed hands o'er the heathen's dark 
abysm ? 

Of the " Mary of Ireland," pure and wise, 
and Ida, the blessed nun, 

Like the Heralds of Pars,* sent forth be- 
fore, to usher the bursting sun ? 

Have you heard of the woman fair and foul, 

o'er whose shame no softening veil 
Shall ever be drawn by the mournful years, 

while they hear her lost land's wail ? 
Yea, hers was the crime, and yours is the 

stain till Erin shall rise up crowned, 
When the women of Erin loose the chain 

that the hands of a woman bound. 

But bitter the ban, and black the brand, 
that is heavy upon your brows, 

While your country cries and your sisters 
starve, and never an hour ye rouse; 

* Pars — Persia. 



But ye sweep in your silks and laces here, 
in your new-found honors proud, 

While "over the stream" the corpse-lips 
call, from many a woman's shroud. 

Remember the olden times, when the Lord 

looked down on the Hebrew dames, 
Who walked with the tinkling feet, and 

loved the glory that only shames; 
How He gave them for robes a sackcloth, for 

a girdle He gave a rent, 
And for beauty He gave a burning, and a 

stench for a delicate scent. 

They heard not the groans of the poor, and 

they saw not the wreck of their land, 
They smiled to the lordly oppressor, and 

fawned to the plunderer's hand; 
Till God rose up in His wrath, and smote 

the crown of each haughty head, 
And on the road that the beggar had trod, 

made the mincing feet to tread. 

The Lord is living, the Lord that judged, 

that humbled the wanton then; 
Each speeding moment His word goes out, 

like the clarion's peal to men. 
But their ears are deaf, — they will not hear, 

till the stars shall topple and fall, 
And the pride of earth shall shrivel and 

pass, and be seen no more at all. 

Then the Voices that tempt, the Yoices that 

stun, shall be mute for evermore, — 
The Voices that drown the shriek of the 

poor, when the burden presses sore, — 
They shall cease, — the quibble and gibe and 

lie, the casuist's bloodless sneers, 
And the voice of God shall speak on alone, 

thro' the everlasting years. 

sisters ! tenderest hearts on earth, are 
your bosoms turned to stone ? 

cruel sisters ! have you no ears for a dy- 
ing people's moan ? 

cruel sisters ! have you no eyes for the 
tears pressed out by wrong ? — 

The tears that the world is weary to see, 
they have flowed so fast and long. 



POEMS OF FANNY PA11NELL. 



The dropping of tears — the dripping of blood 

—oh, the world is sick at heart ! 
It points to us with an angry scorn, saying, 

— " See how they stand apart ! 
'Tis all for glitter, or all for greed, or all for 

a mushroom's rise; 
Shall strangers pity or help when these go 

by with averted eyes ? " 

Far down the echoing aisles of the Past 

comes the tread of stately feet, 
Where Jewess and Pagan and Christian 

shrined in an equal glory meet; 
There Judith walks with the virgin Joan, 

and Miriam chants of Egypt's seas, 
And she that bore the Gracchi is there, and 

she that suckled the Maccabees. 

Is there never a name on all our roll of noble 

women and fair, 
That is worthy the lustre of such as these to 

grandly win and wear ? 
Shall a woman's hand be the first to raise 

the banner that leads the free 
In every land that hath rent its bonds, save 

alone, Erin, in thee ? 

The sisters whose palms ye would scarcely 

touch, whose palms are rugged with 

toil, 
From penury's store they have given like 

queens, and poured out the wine and 

oil; 
The hot Irish heart, is it dead in the breasts 

of you who have gold and power ? 
Can never a lady of all put on the woman 

again for an hour ? 

Nay, well I know that the patriot's path 

hath naught of delight to show; 
Nay, well I know that for woman and man 

the thorns of the martyr grow; 
The trail of blood from the pilloried feet 

that climb 'mid cursing and scorn, 
Points ever the way, and the one straight 

way, that leads to the hills of morn. 

The King of the children of men hath spread 
His feast for you and for me; 

Ye must eat of an ashen bread, and' drink 
the wine from a bitter tree; 



Who would sup with the Lord in Paradise 
must taste of the pariah's food, 

Who would rest with the Lord in Paradise, 
must carry with Him the Kood. 

Oh, women of Ireland, make you a name that 

the world shall hear and thrill ! 
Oh, women of Ireland, this is no time for 

babbling or sitting still; 
No time is it now to doubt and quail, — there 

is holiest work to do, — 
The harvest of Fate is ripe this day, and God 

and your country have need of you. 



JOHN DILLON. 

" Pater nobilis, filius nobilior." 

Like Spain's young Cid of yore, methought 
I saw thee rise, 
The mystic inner glow thro' thy pale fea- 
tures shining; 
Kodrigo's fiery soul was leaping from thine 
eyes, — 
Spain's Eed-Cross flag with blazoned sham- 
rocks round thee twining. 

I heard thee speak, and dreamed of Galahad 
the chaste, 
Of Launcelot the brave, and Arthur's, 
kingly glory; 
Mailed shadows on thy form the helm and 
hauberk placed, 
And bade thee forth, to take up knight- 
hood's broken story. 

The voice of Art McMurrough thunderel 
thro' thy tongue, 
Of John the Proud, whose true neart — 
Bloody Bess disdaining — 
By those twin snakes of craft and greed to 
death was stung 
Whose rank trail still the banners of the 
Scot is staining. 

Methought the murdered Desmond raised 
his blood-scored throat 
Uptowered the Three Great Earls, who' 
fought and fled despairing; 



POEMS OF FANNY PARNELL. 



Forth gleamed our Owen Roe who first the 
Roundheads smote, 
Then died, with single arm his country's 
flag upbearing. 

Around thee still I saw the great souls 
thronging fast, — 
Grattan, the golden-tongued, whose breast 
with storms was swelling; 
The Geraldine, of all his race's heroes, last, 
With wild Norse blood against the Saxon 
churl rebelling. 

"Wolfe Tone! — ah! let the head be bowed, 
the voice be hushed! 
See you the livid veins that gape with 
mournful quiver? 
Martyr, self -slain! the blood that from thy 
sad heart gushed, 
'Twixt Celt and Saxon flows, a black and 
bridgeless river. 

Tread softly yet again! we stand on holy 
ground! 
Emmet, our nation's Bayard, 'gainst for- 
lorn hope hoping; 
In him some knight of Aiteach's grot, long 
slumber-bound, 
"Woke up, with baffled fingers for the dead 
Past groping, 

A giant Form I saw that loomed out dim 
and vast, 
A great, broad brow of might, yet stamped 
with endless yearning; 
O'Connell! thou whose labors all men's have 
o'er-past, 
Though for thy guerdon only failure's 
anguish earning. 

Fret not thy noble heart ! no hero fails in 
vain; 
Lo! Sampson in his wreck the Pagan hosts 
o'er-throwing; 
Lo! Herakles, the half -god, rent with such 
vast pain, 
As only they who serve their race win right 
of knowing. 



Behold Prometheus! lover of the darkened 
world; 
The grim gods cursed with death the flame 
he gave for blessing, 
Yet — to his rock of torture by their ven- 
geance hurled — 
He only smiled, — his soul in triumph still 
possessing. 



And on they came! — Lo, Davis ! ' 
meteor soul 
As in Elijah's fiery chariot, heavenward 
sweeping, 
Threw clown the patriot's mantle and the 
poet's scroll, 
That Erin's mournful Genius still un- 
touched is keeping. 

Yet more ! the men who thro' the white-hot 
furnace walked, 
Like Rome's live torches, quenched in 
pain's last radiation — 
Mitchel, whose tongue the thunders of the . 
war-god talked, 
Teaching the one old way where lies the 
serf's salvation. 

O'Brien, he who smote his fellows on the 
face, — 
The clan of lordlings, born from rapine 
and oppression, — 
And, turning, stung with grand disdain 
caste and race, 
Went out and joined the patriots' pariah 
procession. 

And still they came, — till space shall fail to 
tell their names; 
Thousands of hero shades around thy 
young head sweeping; 
The air was filled with splendors, as when 
heavenly flames 
O'er apostolic brows the Spirit's watch 
were keeping 

Thy sponsors these, young chief, thy com- 
rades to the fray; 
In all their pangs and joys thou shalt be 
made partaker; 






POEMS OF FANNY PARNELL. 



'49 



They shall be there to choke the landlord 
from his prey, 
They shall be there to give the lie to peer 
and Quaker. 

The path before thy feet climbs brightening 
to the stars; 
These champion souls that fell shall never 
bid thee falter; 
Better to strive and fall, decked but with 
warfare's scars, 
And immolate e'en Fame, on Freedom's 
holy altar. 

Ah ! darkly lies Gethsemane around thee 
now ! 
In bloody sweat the kings of earth must 
write their story, 
But on the Mount, high o'er the clouds, thy 
wounded brow, 
Like Gabriel's who slew the Worm, shall 
shine in glory. 



BUCKSHOT FOESTEE. 
"Your hands are denied with blood, and your 
fingers with iniquity; your lips have spoken lies, 
your tongue hath uttered perversities." — Isaiah. 

fallen inheritor of a glorious faith, 
By martyr souls unspotted handed down, 

Behold up-looming sadly Fox's stern-browed 
wraith, 
Sore stricken for his blood-polluted crown ! 

Behold the tongue-pierc'd Naylor of the fiery 
heart, 
And brain with sacred frenzy all dis- 
traught ! 
The stately shade of Penn, who chose the 
outcast's part, 
So hotly in his breast Love's magic 
wrought ! 

Penn, who has taught a wolfish world that 
love can reign 
Where hate and rapine gnash decrepit jaws; 



Penn, who has taught a knavish world that 
truth can gain 
The savage mind to serve her own sweet 
laws. 

clean-lipped founder of a race of Nature's 
kings ! 
Men of the steadfast will and gentle word, 
Men to whose helping hands the crushed 
wretch ever clings, 
Whose feet in mercy's ways are ever 
spurred, — 

From them the red-skin learned some white 
men could be true, 
Some Christians yet could scorn the tongue 
of guile; 
Not They betrayed the heathen of the tawny 
hue, 
To add new treasures to the Christian's 
pile. 

Far o'er the ocean rose a cry from myriad 
lips, 
From myriad dying lips that moaned for 
bread; 
Oh! fast on Irish backs fell England's scor- 
pion whips, 
And hard on Irish hearts the crushing 
Saxon tread. 

But these men heard; — their sires had fled 
from England's hate, 
That cruel Motherland that knew them 
not, — 
With feet love-shod and hands to bounty 
consecrate, 
They fought back death in many a helot's 
cot. 

men of men ! not tongue of mine can tell 
your praise, 
True servants of the Christ, you shone for 
all; 
Yet as in loveliest rose- hearts, oft our startled 
gaze 
On some foul birth of wriggling slime will 
fall,— 



POEMS OF FANNY rAKNELL. 



So falls our gaze on one, who on your snowy 


With measure thou hast meted, God shall 


roll 


fill thy breast, 


Leaves thick and dark a blot of lasting 


And mercy such as thine, thy soul shall 


shame, — 


know. 


He who for power's tenure sells his faith and 




soul, 


"'Twere more humane," thus meant thy 


And bears a bloody label to his name, — 


pharisaic speech, 




" To slay a hundred than to slay but one ! " 


The man of peace, the man of truth, 'mid 


New doctrines to delight thy masters thou 


Saxon friends, 


canst preach; 


Who bless the day they found their smooth- 


Let Cromwell blush, and own himself out- 


faced tool; 


done! 


The man of lies, the man of blood, when 




Saxon ends 


That grim old warrior slew, but never whined 


Demand that force and fraud again shall 


that love, 


rule ! 


Love for his victims, drove him forth to 




slay; 


The man of murder ! hark, from many a 


'Twas not the gentle mercy dropping from 


1 reddened field, 


above, 


I hear the shrieks of butchered serfs up- 


That urged liim raging on his helpless 


rise: 


prey. 


Stand forth, Assassin ! with thy crimson 




hands revealed; 


Go on, Friend! and make our land one 


That guiltless blood thy name to Heaven 


peaceful grave; 


cries. 


Thus shall the lustre of thy greatness 




blaze; 


Ay, Buckshot Forster ! baptized thus in bit- 


A little buckshot thus a suffering land shall 


ter jest, 


save, 


Angels at God's stern bar shall call thee 


And wreathe thy Quaker hat with Hay- 


so; 


nau's bays. 



POEMS OF JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 



THE FAME OF THE CITY. 

A great rich city of power and pride, 
With streets full of traders, and ships on the 

tide; 
"With rich men and workmen and judges 

and preachers, 
The shops full of skill and the schools full 

of teachers. 

The people were proud of their opulent town: 
The rich men spent millions to bring it re- 
nown, 
The strong men built and the tradesmen 

planned, 
The shipmen sailed to every land, 
The lawyers argued, the schoolmen taught, 
And a poor shy Poet his verses brought, 
And cast them into the splendid store. 

The tradesmen stared at his useless craft; 
The rich men sneered and the strong men 

laughed; 
The preachers said it was worthless quite; 
The schoolmen claimed it was theirs to write; 
But the songs were spared, though they 

added nought 
To the profit and praise the people sought, 
That was wafted at last from distant climes; 
And the townsmen said: " To remotest 

times 
We shall send our name and our greatness 

down ! " 

The boast came true; but the famous town 
Had a lesson to learn when all was told: 
The nations that honored cared nought for 

its gold, 
Its skill they exceeded an hundred-fold; 
It had only been one of a thousand more, 
Had the songs of the Poet been lost to its 



Then the rich men and tradesmen and 

schoolmen said 
They had never derided, but praised instead; 
And they boast of the Poet their town has 

bred. 



HEART-HUNGER. 

There is no truth in faces, save in children: 

They laugh and frown and weep from na- 
ture's keys; 

But we who meet the world give out false 
notes, 

The true note dying muffled in the heart. 

0, there be woful prayers and piteous wail- 
ing 

That spirits hear, from lives that starve for 
love ! 

The body's food is bread; and wretches' cries 

Are heard and answered: but the spirit's 
food 

Is love; and hearts that starve may die in 



And no physician mark the cause of death. 

You cannot read the faces; they are masks, — 
Like yonder woman, smiling at the lips, 
Silk-clad, bejewelled, lapped with luxury, 
And beautiful and young — ay, smiling at 

the lips, 
But never in the eyes from inner light: 
A gracious temple hung with flowers with- 
out — 
Within, a naked corpse upon the stones ! 

0, years and years ago the hunger came — 
The desert-thirst for love — she prayed for 
love — 



POEMS OF JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 



She cried out in the night-time of her soul 

for love ! 
The cup they gave was poison whipped to 

froth. 
For years she drank it, knowing it for death; 
She shrieked in soul against it, but must 

drink: 
The skies were dumb— she dared not swoon 

or scream. 
As Indian mothers see babes die for food, 
She watched dry-eyed beside her starving 

heart, 
And only sobbed in secret for its gasps, 
And only raved one wild hour when it died ! 

Pain, have pity ! Numb her quivering 

sense; 
Fame, bring guerdon ! Thrice a thousand 

years 
Thy boy-thief with the fox beneath his cloak 
Hath let it gnaw his side unmoved, and held 

the world; 
And she, a slight woman, smiling at the lips, 
With repartee and jest — a corpse-heart in 

her breast ! 



JACQUEMINOTS. 

I may not speak in words, dear, but let my 
words be flowers, 
To tell their crimson secret in leaves of 
fragrant fire; 
They plead for smiles and kisses as summer 
fields for showers, 
And every purple veinlet thrills with ex- 
quisite desire. 

0, let me see the glance, dear, the gleam of 
soft confession 
You give my amorous roses for the tender 
hope they prove; 
And press their heart-leaves back, love, to 
drink their deeper passion, 
For their sweetest, wildest perfume is the 
whisper of my love ! 



My roses, tell her, pleading, all the fondness 
and the sighing, 
All the longing of a heart that reaches 
thirsting for its bliss, 
And tell her, tell her, roses, that my lips 
and eyes are dying 
For the melting of her love-look and the 
rapture of her kiss. 



MY NATIVE LAND. 

It chanced to me upon a time to sail 

Across the Southern Ocean to and fro; 
And, landing at fair isles, by stream and vale 

Of sensuous blessing did we ofttimes go. 
And months of dreamy joys, like joys in 
sleep, 
Or like a clear, calm stre:im o'er mossy 
stone, 
Unnoted passed our hearts with voiceless 
sweep, 
And left us yearning still for lands un- 
known. 

And when we found one, — for 'tis soon to find 

In thousand-isled Cathay another isle, — 
For one short noon its treasures filled the 
mind, 
And then again we yearned, and ceased 
to smile- 
And so it was, from isle to isle we passed, 
Like wanton bees or boys on flowers or 
lips; 
And when that all was tasted, then at last 
We thirsted sore for draughts instead of 
sips. 

I learned from this there is no Southern land 
Can fill with love the hearts of Northern 
men. 
Sick minds need change; but, when in health 
they stand 
'Neath foreign skies, their love flies home 
again. 
And thus with me it was: the yearning 
turned 
From laden airs of cinnamon away, 



POEMS OF JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 



To:.! 



And stretched far westward, while the full 
heart burned 
With love for Ireland, looking on Cathay ! 

My first dear love, all dearer for thy grief ! 
My land, that has no peer in all the sea 
For verdure, vale, or river, flower or leaf, — 
If first to no man else, thou'rt first to me. 
New loves may come with duties, but the 
first 
Is deepest yet, — the mother's breath and 
smiles: 
Like that kind face and breast where I was 
nursed 
Is my poor land, the Niobe of isles. 



WESTERN AUSTRALIA. 

beauteous Southland ! land of yellow air, 
That hangeth o'er thee slumbering, and 
doth hold 

The moveless foliage of thy valleys fair 
And wooded hills, like aureole of gold. 

thou, discovered ere the fitting time, 
Ere Nature in completion turned thee 
forth ! 
Ere aught was finished but thy peerless clime, 
Thy virgin breath allured the amorous 
North. 

land, God made thee wondrous to the eye ! 
But His sweet singers thou hast never 
heard; 
He left thee, meaning to come by-and-by, 
And give rich voice to every bright- winged 
bird. 

He painted with fresh hues thy myriad 



But left them scentless: ah ! their woful 
dole, 
Like sad reproach of their Creator's pow- 
ers, — 

To make so sweet fair bodies, void of soul. 



He gave thee trees of odorous, precious wood ; 
But midst them all, bloomed not one tree 
of fruit. 
He looked, but said not that His work was 
good, 
When leaving thee all perfumeless and 
mute. 

He blessed thy flowers with honey: every 
bell 
Looks earthward, sunward, with a yearn- 
ing wist; 
But no bee-lover ever notes the swell 

Of hearts, like lips, a-hungering to be kist. 

strange land, thou art virgin ! thou art 
more 
Than fig-tree barren ! Would that I could 
paint 
For others' eyes the glory of the shore 

Where last I saw tfhee; but the senses-. 
faint 

In soft delicious dreaming when they drain 
Thy wine of color. Virgin fair thou art, 

All sweetly fruitful, waiting with soft pain 
The spouse who comes to wake thy sleep- 
ing heart. 



WAITING. 



He is coming ! he is coming ! in my throb- 
bing breast I feel it; 
There is music in my blood, and it whis- 
pers all day long, 
That my love unknown comes toward me ! 
Ah, my heart, he need not steal it, 
For I cannot hide the secret that it mur- 
murs in its song ! 

the sweet bursting flowers ! how they 
open, never blushing, 
Laying bare their fragrant bosoms to the 
kisses of the sun ! 
And the birds — I thought 'twas poets only- 
read their tender gushing, 
But I hear their pleading stories, and I 
know them every one. 



rs4 



POEMS OF JOHN BOYLE O'EEILLY. 



*'He is coming!" says my heart; I may 
raise my eyes and greet him; 
I may meet him any moment — shall I 
knpw him when I see ? 
And my heart laughs back the answer — I 
can tell him when I meet him, 
For our eyes will kiss and mingle ere he 
speaks a word to me. 

0, I'm longing for his coming — in the dark 
my arms outreaching; 
To hasten you, my love, see, I lay my 
bosom bare ! 
Ah, the night-wind ! I shudder, and my 
hands are raised beseeching — 
It wailed so light a death-sigh that passed 
me in the air ! 



LIVING. 



To toil all day and lie worn-out at night; 
To rise for all the years to slave and sleep, 
And breed new broods to do no other thing 
In toiling, bearing, breeding — life is this 
To myriad men, too base for man or brute. 

To serve for common duty, while the brain 
Is hot with high desire to be distinct; 
To fill the sand-grain place among the stones 
That build the social wall in million same- 
ness, 
Is life by leave, and death by insignificance. 

To live the morbid years, with dripping blood 
Of sacrificial labor for a Thought; 
To take the dearest hope and lay it down 
Beneath the crushing wheels for love of 

Freedom; 
To bear the sordid jeers of cant and trade, 
And go on hewing for a far ideal, — 
This were a life worth giving to a cause, 
If cause be found so worth a martyr life. 

But highest life of man, nor work nor sacri- 
fice, 
But utter seeing of the things that be ! 
To pass amid the Irurrying crowds, and watch 



The hungry race for things of vulgar use; 
To mark the growth of baser lines in men; 
To note the bending to a servile rule; 
To know the natural discord called disease 
That rots like rust the blood and souls of 

men; 
To test the wisdoms and philosophies by 

touch 
Of that which is immutable, being clear, 
The beam Ood opens to the poet's brain; 
To see with eyes of pity laboring souls 
Strive upward to the Freedom and the 

Truth, 
And still be backward dragged by fear and 

ignorance; 
To see the beauty of the world, and hear 
The rising harmony of growth, whose shade 
Of undertone is harmonized decay; 
To know that love is life — that blood is one 
And rushes to the union — that the heart 
Is like a cup athirst for wine of love; 
Who sees and feels this meaning utterly, 
The wrong of law, the right of man, the 

natural truth, 
Partaking not of selfish aims, withholding 

not 
The word that strengthens and the hand that 

helps; 
Who waits and sympathizes with the pettiest 

life, 

And loves all things, and reaches up to God 
With thanks and blessing — he alone is living. 






HER REFRAIN. 
" Do you love me ? " she said, when the skies 
were blue, 
And we walked where the stream through 
the branches glistened; 
And 1 told and retold her my love was true. 
While she listened and smiled, and smiled 
and listened. 

" Do you love me ?" she whispered,when days 
were drear, 
And her eyes searched mine with a patient 
yearning; 



POEMS OF JOHN BOYLE O'EEILLY. 



on my 



And I kissed her, renewing the words so 
dear, 
"While she listened and smiled, as if slowly- 
learning. 

" Do you love me ? " she asked, when we sat 
at rest 
By the stream enshadowed with autumn 
glory; 
Her cheek had been laid as ii 
breast, 
But she raised it to ask for the sweet old 
story. 

And I said: " I will tell her the tale again — 
I will swear by the earth and the stars 

above me ! " [prove 

And I told her that uttermost time should 
The fervor and faith of my perfect love; 
And I vowed it and pledged it that nought 

should move; 
While she listened and smiled in my face, 

and then 
She whispered once more, " Do you truly 

love me ? " 



A SAVAGE. 



Dixon, a Choctaw, twenty years of age, 

Had killed a miner in a Leadville brawl; 
Tried and condemned, the rough-beards 
curb their rage, 
And watch him stride in freedom from 
the hall. 

"Return on Friday, to be shot to death ! " 

So ran the sentence — it was Monday night. 
The dead man's comrades drew a well-pleased 
breath; 
Then all night long the gambling dens 
were bright. 

The days sped slowly; but the Friday came, 
And flocked the miners to the shooting- 
ground; 

They chose six riflemen of deadly aim 
And with low voices sat and lounged 



"He will not come." "He's not a fool." 
" The men 
"Who set the savage free must face the 



A Choctaw brave smiled bitterly, and then 
Smiled proudly, with raised head, as Dixon 
came. 

Silent and stern — a woman at his heels; 
He motions to the brave, who stays her 
tread. 
Next minute — flame the guns; the woman 
reels 
And drops without a moan — Dixon is dead. 



LOVE'S SECRET. 

Love found them sitting in a woodland place, 
His amorous hand amid her golden tresses; 

And Love looked smiling on her glowing face 
And moistened eyes upturned to his ca- 



"0 sweet," she murmured, "life is utter 
bliss ! " 
" Dear heart," he said, " our golden cup 
runs over ! " 
"Drink, love," she cried, "and thank the 
gods for this ! " 
He drained the precious lips of cup and 
lover. 

Love blessed the kiss; but, ere he wandered 

thence, 

The mated bosoms heard this benediction: 

"Love lies within the brimming howl of sense: 

Who keeps this full has joy— who drains, 

affliction." 

They heard the rustle as he smiling fled: 
She reached her hand to pull the roses 
blowing. 
He stretched to take the purple grapes o'er- 
head; 
Love whispered back, "Nay, keep their 
beauties groioing." 



750 



POEMS OF JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 



They paused, and understood: one flower 
alone 
They took and kept, and Love flew smil- 
ing over. 
Their roses bloomed, their cup went brim- 
ming on — 
She looked for Love within, and found 
her lover. 



LOVE'S SACRIFICE. 

Love's Herald flew o'er all the fields of 
Greece, 

Crying: " Love's altar waits for sacrifice ! " 
And all folk answered, like a wave of peace, 

With treasured offerings and gifts of price. 

Toward high Olympus every white road filled 
With pilgrims streaming to the blest 
abode; 

Each bore rich tribute, some for joys fulfilled, 
And some for blisses lingering on the road. 

The pious peasant drives his laden car; 

The fisher youth bears treasure from the 
sea; 
A wife brings honey for the sweets that are; 

A maid brings roses for the sweets to be. 

Here strides the soldier with his wreathed 
sword, 
No more to glitter in his country's wars; 
There walks the poet with his mystic word, 
And smiles at Eros' mild recruit from 
Mars. 

But midst these bearers of propitious gifts, 
Behold where two, a youth and maiden, 
stand: 
She bears no boon; his arm no burden lifts, 
Save her dear finger pressed within Ins 
hand. 

Their touch ignites the soft delicious fire, 
Whose rays the very altar-flames eclipse; 

Their eyes are on each other — sweet desire 
And yea.rning passion tremble on their lips. 



So fair — so strong ! Ah, Love ! what errant 
wiles 
Have brought these two so poor and so 
unblest ? 
But see ! Instead of anger, Cupid smiles; 
And lo ! he crowns their sacrifice as best ! 

Their hands are empty, but their hearts are 
filled; 

Their gifts so rare for all the host suffice: 
Beore the altar is their life-wine spilled — 

The love they long for is their sacrifice. 



AT FREDERICKSBURG.— DEC. 13, 

1862. 

God send us peace, and keep red strife away; 

But should it come, God send us men and 

steel ! 

The land is dead that dare not face the day 

When foreign danger threats the common 

weal. 

Defenders strong are they that homes defend; 

From ready arms the spoiler keeps afar. 
Well blest the country that has sons to lend 

From trades of peace to learn the trade of 
war. 

Thrice blest the nation that has every son 
A soldier, ready for the warning sound; 
Who marches homeward when the fight is 
done, 
To swing the hammer and to till the 
ground. 

Call back that morning, with its lurid light, 
When through our land the awful war- 
bell tolled; 
When lips were mute, and women's faces 
white 
As the pale cloud that out from Sumter 
rolled. 

Call back that morn: an instant all were 
dumb, 
As if the shot had struck the Nation's life; 






POEMS OF JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 



Then cleared the smoke, and rolled the call- 
ing drum, 
And men streamed in to meet the coming 
strife. 

They closed the ledger and they stilled the 
loom, 
The plough left rusting in the prairie 
farm; 
They saw but " Union " in the gathering 
gloom; 
The tearless women helped the men to 
arm; 

Brigades from towns — each village sent its 
band: 

German and Irish — every race and faith; 
There was no question then of native land, 

But — love the Flag and follow it to death. 

No need to tell their tale: through every age 
The splendid story shall be sung and said; 

But let me draw one picture from the page — 
For words of sous: embalm the hero dead. 



The smooth hill is bare, and the cannons are 



Like Gorgon fates shading its terrible 
brow; 
The word has been passed that the stormers 
are wanted, 
And Burnside's battalions are mustering 
now. 
The armies stand by to behold the dread 
meeting; 
The work must be done by a desperate 
few; 
The black-mouthed guns on the height give 
them greeting — 
From gun-mouth to plain every grass blade 
in view. 
Strong earthworks are there, and the rifles 
behind them 
Are Georgia militia — an Irish brigade — 
Their caps have green badges, as if to remind 
them 
Of all the brave record their country has 
made. 
The stormers go forward — the Federals cheer 
them; 



They breast the smooth hillside — the black 
mouths are dumb; 
The riflemen lie in the works till they near 
them, 
And cover the stormers as upward they 
come. 
Was ever a death-march so grand and so 
solemn ? 
At last, the dark summit with flame is 
enlined; 
The great guns belch doom on the sacrificed 
column, 
That reels from the height, leaving hun- 
dreds behind. 
The armies are hushed — there is no cause 
for cheering: 
The fall of brave men to brave men is a 
pain. 
Again come the stormers ! and as they are 
nearing 
The flame-sheeted rifle-lines, reel back 
again. 
And so till full noon come the Federal 



Flung back from the height, as the cliff 
flings a wave; 
Brigade on brigade to the death-struggle 



No wavering rank till it steps on the 
grave. 
Then comes a brief lull, and the smoke-pall 
is lifted, 
The green of the hillside no longer is seen; 
The dead soldiers lie as the sea-weed is 
drifted, 
The earthworks still held by the badges 
of green. 
Have they quailed ? is the word. No: again 
they are forming — 
Again comes a column to death and de- 
feat ! 
What is it in these who shall now do the 
storming 
That makes every Georgian spring to his 
feet? 
" God ! what a pity ! " they cry in their 
cover, 
As rifles are readied and bayonets made 
tight; 



POEMS OF JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 



'•' Tis Meagher and his fellows ! their caps 
have green clover; 
'Tis Greek to Greek now for the rest of 
the fight ! " 
Twelve hundred the column, their rent flag 
before them, 
With Meagher at their head, they have 
dashed at the hill ! 
Their foemen are proud of the country that 
bore them; 
But, Irish in love, they are enemies still. 
Out rings the fierce word, " Let them have 
it ! " the rifles 
Are emptied point-blank in the hearts of 
the foe: 
It is green against green but a principle 
stifles 
The Irishman's love in the Georgian's 
blow. 
The column has reeled, but it is not de- 
feated; 
In front of the guns they re-form and at- 
tack; 
Six times they have done it, and six times 
retreated; 
Twelve hundred they came, and two hun- 
dred go back. 
Two hundred go back with the chivalrous 
story; 
The wild day is closed in the night's sol- 
emn shroud; 
A thousand lie dead, but their death was a 
glory 
That calls not for tears — the Green Badges 
are proud ! 
Bright honor be theirs who for honor were 



Who charged for their flag to the grim 
cannon's mouth; 
And honor to them who were true, though 
not tearless, — 
Who bravely that day kept the cause of 
the South. 
The quarrel is done — God avert such another; 
The lesson it brought we should evermore 
heed: 
Who loveth the Flag is a man and a brother, 
No matter what birth or what race or what 
creed. 



RELEASED— JANUARY, 1878.* 

They are free at last ! They can face the 
sun; 
Their hearts now throb with the world's 
pulsation; 
Their prisons are open — their night is done; 
'Tis England's mercy and reparation ! 

The years of their doom have slowly sped — 
Their limbs are withered — their ties are 
riven; 
Their children are scattered, their friends 
are dead — 
But the prisons are open — the "crime" 
forgiven. 

God ! what a threshold they stand upon: 
The world has passed on while they v.c <■:■• 
buried ; 
In the glare of the sun they walk alone 
On the grass-grown track where the crowd 
has hurried. 

Haggard and broken and seared with pain, 
They seek the remembered friends and 
places: 
Men shuddering turn, and gaze again 

At the deep-drawn lines on their altered 
faces. 

What do they read on the pallid page ? 

What is the tale of these wof ul letters ? 
A lesson as old as their country's age, 

Of a love that is stronger than stripes and 
fetters. 

In the blood of the slain some dip their blade. 
And swear by the stain to follow: 

But a deadlier oath might here be made, 
On the wasted bodies and faces hollow. 

Irishmen ! You who have kept the peace — 
Look on these forms diseased and broken: 

Believe, if you can, that their late release, 
When their lives are sapped, is a good-will 



* On the 5th of January, 1878, three ot the Irish political 
prisoners, who had been confined since l^'.n, uvre hi at lib- 
erty. The released men were received by their fellow- 
countrymen in London. " They are well," said the report. 
" but they look prematurely old." 






POEMS OF JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 



Their hearts are the bait on England's hook; 

For this are they dragged from her hope- 
less prison; 
She reads her doom in the Nations' book — 

She fears the day that has darkly risen; 

She reaches her hand for Ireland's aid — 
Ireland, scourged, contemned, derided; 

She begs from the beggar her hate has made; 
She seeks for the strength her guile di- 
vided. 

She offers a bribe — ah, God above ! 

Behold the price of the desecration: 
The hearts she has tortured for Irish love 

She brings as a bribe to the Irish nation ! 

0, blind and cruel ! She fills her cup 
With conquest and pride, till its red wine 



But shrieks at the draught as she drinks it 
up— 
Her wine has been turned to blood and 



We know her — our Sister ! Come on the 
storm ! 
God send it soon and sudden upon her: 
The race she has shattered and sought to 
deform 
Shall laugh as she drinks the black dis- 
honor. 



A NATION'S TEST. 



READ AT THE O'CONNELL CENTENNIAL IN BOSTON, 
ON AUGUST 6, 1875, 



A nation's greatness lies in men, not acres; 

One master-mind is worth a million hands. 
No royal robes have marked the planet- 
shakers, 

But Samson-strength to burst the ages' 



The might of empire gives no crown super- 
nal — 
Athens is here — but where is Macedon? 



A dozen lives make Greece and Borne eter- 
nal, 
And England's fame might safely rest on 
one. 

Here test and text are drawn from Nature's 
preaching: 
Afric and Asia — half the rounded earth — 
In teeming lives the solemn truth are teach- 
ing, 
That insect-millions may have human 
birth. 
Sun-kissed and fruitful, every clod is breed- 
ing 
A petty life, too small to reach the eye: 
So must it be, with no Man thinking, lead- 
ing, 
The generations creep their course and die. 

Hapless the lands, and doomed amid the 
races, 

That give no answer to this royal test; 
Their toiling tribes will droop ignoble faces, 

Till earth in pity takes them back to rest. 
A vast monotony may not be evil, 

But God's light tells us it cannot be good; 
Valley and hill have beauty — but the level 

Must bear a shadeless and a stagnant 
brood. 



I bring the touchstone, Motherland, to thee, 
And test thee trembling, fearing thou 
shouldst fail; 
If fruitless, sonless, thou wert proved .to be, 
Ah, what would love and memory avail ? 
Brave land ! God has blest thee ! 

Thy strong heart I feel, 
As I touch thee and test thee — 
Dear land ! As the steel 
To the magnet flies upward, so rises thy 



With a motherly pride to the touch of the 
test. 



the touchstone, 
looking on her distant youth, 
Looking down her line of leaders and of 
workers for the truth. 



POEMS OF JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 



Ere the Teuton, Norseman, Briton, left the 

primal woodland spring. 
When their rule was might and rapine, and 

their law a painted king; 
When the sun of art and learning still was 

in the Orient; 
When the pride of Babylonia under Cyrus' 

hand was shent; 
When the sphinx's introverted eye turned 

fresh from Egypt's guilt; 
When the Persian bowed to Athens; when 

the Parthenon was built; 
When the Macedonian climax closed the 

Commonwealths of Greece; 
When the wrath of Eoman manhood burst 

on Tarquin for Lucrece — 
Then was Erin rich in knowledge — thence 

from out her Ollamh's store — 
Kenned to-day by students only — grew her 

ancient Senchus More; * 
Then were reared her mighty builders, who 

made temples to the sun — 
There they stand — the old Pound Towers — 

showing how their work was done: 
Thrice a thousand years upon them — sham- 
ing all our later art — 
Warning fingers raised to tell us we must 
build with reverent heart. 

Ah, we call thee Mother Erin ! Mo'tker thou 

in right of years; 
Mother in the large fruition— mother in the 

joys and tears. 
All thy life has been a symbol — we can only 

read a part: 
God will flood thee yet with sunshine for 

the woes that drench thy heart. 
All thy life has been symbolic of a human 

mother's life: 
Youth's sweet hopes 'and dreams have van- 
ished, and the travail and the strife 
Are upon thee in the present; but thy work 

until to-day 
Still has been for truth and manhood — and 

it shall not pass away: 

* " Senchus More," or Great Law, the title of the Brehon 
Laws, translated by O'Donovan and O'Curry. Ollamh 
Fola, who reigned 900 years b. c, organized a trien- 
nial parliament at Tara, of the chiefs, priests, and bards, 
-who digested the laws into a record called the Psalter of 



Justice lives, though judgment lingers— an- 
gels' feet are heavy shod — 

But a planet's years are moments in th' eter- 
nal day of God ! 



Out from the valley of death and tears, 
From the war and want of a thousand years, 
From the mark of sword and the rust of 

chain, 
From the smoke and blood of the penal law?. 
The Irish men and the Irish cause 
Come out in the front of the field again ! 

What says the stranger to such a vitality ? 

What says the statesman to this nationality ? 

Flung on the shore of a sea of defeat, 

Hardly the swimmers have sprung to their 
feet, 

When the nations are thrilled by a clarion- 
word, 

And Burke, the philosopher-statesman, is 
heard. 

When shall his equal be ? Down from the 
stellar height 
Sees he the planet and all on its girth — 

India, Columbia, and Europe — his eagle- 
sight 
Sweeps at a glance all the wrong upon 
earth. 

Paces or sects were to him a profanity: 
Hindoo and Negro and Kelt were as one; 

Large as mankind was his splendid humanity, 
Large in its record' the work he has done. 



What need to mention men of minor note, 
When there be minds that all the heights 
attain ? 
What school-boy knoweth not the hand that 
wrote 
" Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the 
plain ? " 
What man that speaketh English e'er can 
lift 






Tara. Ollamh Fola founded schools of history, medicine, 
philosophy, poetry, and astronomy, which were protected 
by his successors. Kimbath (450 B.C.) and Hugony (300 B.C. > 
also promoted the civil interests of the kingdom in a re- 
markable i 



POEMS OF JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 



His voice 'mid scholars, who hath 
the lore 
Of Berkeley, Curran, Sheridan, and Swift, 
The art of Foley and the songs of Moore ? 
Gmttan and Flood and Emmet — where is he 
That hath not learned respect for such as 
these ? 
Who loveth humor, and hath yet to see 
Lover and Prout and Lever and Maclise ? 



Great men grow greater by the lapse of time: 
We know those least whom we have seen 
the latest; 
And they, 'mong those whose names have 
grown sublime, 
Who worked for Human Liberty, are 
greatest. 

And now for one who allied will to work, 
And thought to act, and burning speech 
to thought; 
Who gained the prizes that were seen by 
Burke — 
Burke felt the wrong— O'Connell felt, and 
fought. 

Ever the same — from boyhood \vp to death 
His race was crushed — his people were de- 
famed; 
He found the spark, and fanned it with his 
breath, 
And fed the fire, till all the nation flamed ! 

He roused the farms — he made the serf a 
yeoman; 
He drilled his millions and he faced the 
foe; 
But not with lead or steel he struck the foe- 
man: 
Eeason the sword — and human right the 
blow. 

He fought for home — but no land-limit 
bounded 
O'Connell's faith, nor curbed his sympa- 
thies; 



All wrong to liberty must be confounded, 
Till men were chainless as the winds and 



He fought for faith — but with no narrow 
spirit; 
With ceaseless hand the bigot laws he 
smote; 
One chart, he said, all mankind should in- 
herit, — 
The right to worship and the right to 
vote. 

Always the same — but yet a glinting prism: 
In wit, law, statecraft, still a master- hand; 

An " uncrowned king," whose people's love 
was chrism; 
His title — Liberator of his Lapnd ! 

" His heart's in Eome, his spirit is in heav- 
en" — 
So runs the old song that his people sing; 
A tall Pound Tower they builded in Glas- 
nevin — 
Fit Irish headstone for an Irish king ! 



Motherland ! there is no cause to doubt 
thee; 
Thy mark is left on every shore to-day. 
Though grief and wrong may cling like robes 
about thee, 
Thy motherhood will keep thee queen al- 
way. 
In faith and patience working, and beli3ving 
Not power alone can make a noble state: 

Whate'er the land, though all things else 
conceiving, 



it breed great men, it is not great. 

Go on, dear land, and midst the generations 

Send out strong men to cry the word aloud; 

Thy niche is empty still amidst the nations — 

Go on in faith, and God must raise the 

cloud. 



POEMS OF LADY WILDE. 



THE BKOTHEKS.* 
A SCENE FROM '98. 



'Ohl give me truths, 



'Tis midnight, falls the lamp-light dull and 
sickly- 
On a pale.and anxious crowd, 
Through the court, and round the judges, 
thronging thickly, 
With prayers, they dare not speak aloud. 
Two youths, two noble youths, stand pris- 
oners at the bar — 
You can see them through the gloom — 
In the pride of life and manhood's beauty, 
there they are 
Awaiting their death doom. 



All eyes an earnest watch on them are keep- 
ing* 
Some, sobbing, turn away, 
And the strongest men can hardly see for 
weeping, 
So noble and so loved were they. 
Their hands are locked together, those young 
brothers, 
As before the judge they stand — 
They feel not the deep grief that moves the 
others, 
For thev die for Fatherland. 



They are pale, but it is not fear that whitens 

On each proud, high brow, 
For the triumph of the martyr's glory 
brightens 

Around them even now. 



They sought to free their land from thrall 
of stranger; 
Was it treason ? Let them die; 
But their blood will cry to Heaven — the 
Avenger 
Yet will hearken from on high. 



Before them, shrinking, cowering, scarce! 



The base Informer bends, 
Who, Judas-like, could sell the blood of true 
men, 
While he clasped their hand as friends. 
Aye, could fondle the young children of his 
victim — 
Break bread with his young wife 
At the moment that for gold his perjured 
dictum 
Sold the husband and the father's life. 



There is silence in the midnight — eyes are 
kaeping 

Troubled watch till forth the jury come; 
There is silence in the midnight — eyes are 
weeping — 

Guilty ! — is the fatal uttered doom. 
For a moment, o'er the brothers' noble faces, 

Came a shadow sad to see; 
Then, silently, they rose up in their places, 

And embraced each other fervently. 

VI. 

Oh ! the rudest heart might tremble at such 
sorrow, 

The rudest cheek might blanch at such a 
scene: 
Twice the judge essayed to speak the word 
— to-morrow — 
Twice faltered, as a woman he had been. 



POEMS OF LADY WILDE. 



To-morrow ! — Fain the elder would have 
spoken, 
Prayed for respite, tho' it is not Death he 
fears; 
But, thoughts of home and wife his heart 
hath broken, 
And his words are stopped by tears. 



But the youngest — oh, he spake out bold 
and clearly: — 
I have no ties of children or of wife; 
Let me die — but spare the brother who more 
dearly 
Is loved by me than life. — 
Pale martyrs, ye may cease, your days are 
numbered; 
Next noon your sun of life goes down; 
One day between the sentence and the scaf- 
fold- 
One day between the torture and the 
crown ! 



A hymn of joy is rising from creation; 
Bright the azure of the glorious summer 
sky; 
But human hearts weep sore in lamentation, 

For the Brothers are led forth to die. 
Aye, guard them with your cannon and your 
lances — 
So of old came martyrs to the stake; 
Aye, guard them — see the people's flashing 
glances, 
For those noble two are dying for their 



Yet none spring forth their bonds to sever; 

Ah ! methinks, had I been there, 
I'd have dared a thousand deaths ere ever 

The sword should touch their hair. 
It falls ! — there is a shriek of lamentation 

From the weeping crowd around; 
They're stilled — the noblest hearts within 
the nation — 

The noblest heads lie bleeding on the 
ground. 



Years have passed since that fatal scene of 
dying, 
Yet, lifelike to this day, 
In their coffins still those severed heads are 
lying. 
Kept by angels from decay. 
Oh ! they preach to us, those still and pallid 



Those pale lips yet implore us, from their 
graves, 
To strive for our birthright as God's crea- 
tures, 

Or die, if we can but live as slaves. 



THE VOICE OF THE POOE. 



Was sorrow ever like to our sorrow ? 

Oh, God above ! 
Will our night never change into a morrow 

Of joy and love ? 
A deadly gloom is on us waking, sleeping, 

Like the darkness at noontide, 
That fell upon the pallid mother, weeping 

By the Crucified. 



Before us die our brothers of starvation: 

Around are cries of famine and despair ! 
Where is hope for us, or comfort, or salva- 
tion — 

Where — oh ! where ? 
If the angels ever hearken, downward bend- 
ing, 

They are weeping, we are sure, 
At the litanies of human groans ascending 

From the crushed hearts of the poor. 

in. 
When the human rests in love upon the 
human, 
All grief is light; 
But who bends one kind glance to illumine 
Our life-long night ? 



m 



POEMS OF LADY WILDE. 



The air around is ringing with their laugh- 
ter — 
Ood has only made the rich to smile; 
But we — in our rags, and want, and woe — 
we follow after, 
Weeping the while. 



And the laughter seems but uttered to de- 
ride us. 

When — oh ! when 
Will fall the frozen barriers that divide us 

Prom other men ? 
Will ignorance for ever thus enslave us ? 

Will misery for ever lay us low? 
All are eager with their insults, but to save 



None, none, we know. 



We never knew a childhood's mirth and 



Nor the proud heart of youth, free and 
brave; 
Oh ! a deathlike dream of wretchedness and 
sadness, 
Is life's weary journey to the grave. 
Day by day we lower sink and lower, 

Till the Godlike soul within, 
Ealls crushed, beneath the fearful demon 
power 
Of poverty and sin. 



So we toil on, on with fever burning 

In heart and brain; 
So we toil on, on through bitter scorning, 

Want, woe, and pain: 
We dare not raise our eyes to the blue 
Heaven, 

Or the toil must cease — 
We dare not breathe the fresh air God has 



given 
One hour in peace. 



We must toil, though the light of life 
burning, 
Oh, how dim! 



We must toil on our sick bed, feebly turning 

Our eyes to Him 
Who alone can hear the pale lip faintly say- 
ing, 
With scarce moved breath, 
While the paler hands, uplifted, aid the 
praying, 
" Lord, grant us Death I " 



BUDRIS AND HIS SONS. 

FROM THE RUSSIAN. 
I. 

Spring to your saddles, and spur your fleet 

horses; 
Time for ye, children, to seek your life 

courses. 
(Thus spake old Budris, the Lithuan 

brave.) 
Never your father's sword rusted in leisure, 
Never his hand failed to grasp the rich 

treasure; [grave. 

But now my feeble frame sinks to the 



Three paths from Wilna to plunder will lead 

ye; 

Ride forth, my sons — each a path I aread ye — 
Thus will your booty be varied and rare. 

Olgard, go thou and despoil the proud Prus- 
sian; 

Woiwod, Kiestut, be thy prey the Russian — 
Vitald the lances of Poland may dare. 



From Novgorod Veliki * come back to me 

never 
Without the rich dust of the Tartar's gold 

river; 
Bring the sables of Yakutsk, so costly and 

fine, 
And the silver of Argun they dig from the 

mine, 
The gems of Siberia and far Koliv&n — 
So saints speed the ride of the bold Lithuan ! 



* Novgorod, the great. 






POEMS OF LADY WILDE. 



In the cursed Prussian land there is wealth 

for the bold: [gold; 

Ha, hoy ! never shrink from their ducats of 

Take their costly brocades, where the golden 

thread flashes, [dashes: 

The amber that lies where the Baltic wave 

Be the prize but as rich as your forefathers 

won, [my son. 

And the gods of old Litwa * will guard thee, 



No gold, my young Vitald, will fall to thy 

share, [bare; 

"Where the plains of the Polac lie level and 

But their lances are bright, and their sabres 

are keen, [seen: 

And their maidens the loveliest ever were 

So speed forth, my son, and good luck to 

the ride [bride. 

That brings a fair Polenese home for thy 



Not the azure of ocean, or stars of the sky, 
Can rival the color or light of her eye; 
Like the lily in hue, when its first leaves 

unfold, [gold; 

Is the bosom on which fall her tresses of 
Fine and slender her form as the pines of 

the grove, [and love. 

And her cheek and her lips glow with beauty 



By three paths from Wilna, the young men 

are roaming, 
Day after day Budris looks for their coming — 

But day after day he watcheth in vain. 
No steed from the high-road, no lance from 

the forest, 
He watcheth and waiteth in anguish the 

sorest — 
"Alas ! for my brave sons, I fear they are 

slain ! " 



The snow in the valley falls heavy and fast — 
Through the forest a horseman comes dash- 
ing at last, 



With his mantle wrapped closely to guard 

from the cold: 
" Ha, Olgard ! hast brought me the ducats 

of gold ? 
Let's see — is it amber thou'st won for thy 

ride?" [bride!" 

" Oh, father — no, father — a young Polish 



The snow on the valley falls heavier still, 
A horseman is seen rushing down from the 

hill; 
Wrapped close in his mantle some rich 

treasure lies — 
" How now, my brave son — hast thou 

brought me a prize ? 
Is it silver of Argun thou'st won for thy ride ? 
Come show me!" "No, father — a young 

Polish bride ! " 



Faster and thicker the snow-showers fall — 
A horseman rides fiercely through snow- 
flakes and all; 
Budris sees how his mantle is clasped to his 
breast — [the feast ! 

" Ho, slaves! 'tis enough, bid our friends to 
I'll ask no more questions, whatever betides, 
We'll drain a full cup to the three Polish 
brides ! " 



SULEIMA TO HER LOVER 

FROM THE TURKISH. 

Thou reck'nest seven Heavens; I but oner 
And thou art it, Beloved ! Voice and hand,. 
And eye arid mouth, are but the angel band 
Who minister around that highest throne — 
Thy godlike heart. And there I reign su- 
preme, 
And choose, at will, the angel who I deem 
Will sing the sweetest, words I love to hear — 
That short, sweet song, whose echo clear 
Will last throughout eternity: 

" I love thee 

How I love thee ! " 



POEMS OF LADY WILDE. 



A LA SOMBKA DE MIS CABELLOS. 

FROM THE SPANISH. — SIXTEENTH CENTURY. 

My love lay there, 

In the shadow of my hair, 
As my glossy raven tresses downward flow; 

And dark as midnight's cloud, 

They fell o'er him like a shroud: 
Ah ! does he now remember it or no ? 

With a comb of gold each night 

I combed my tresses bright; [fro; 

But the sportive zephyr tossed them to and 

So I pressed them in a heap, 

For my love whereon to sleep: 
Ah ! does he now remember it or no ? 



He said he loved to gaze 
i On my tresses' flowing maze, 
And the midnight of my dark Moorish eyes; 

And he vowed 'twould give him pain 

Should his love be all in vain; 
So he won me with his praises and his sighs. 

Then I flung my raven hair 

As a mantle o'er him there, 
Encircling him within its mazy flow; 

And pillowed on my breast, 

He lay in sweet unrest. 
Ah! does he now remember it or no? 



THE ITINEBANT SINGING GIEL. 

FROM THE DANISH. 

Fatherless and motherless, no brothers 

have I, 
And all my little sisters in the cold grave lie; 
Wasted with hunger I saw them falling 

dead — 
Lonely and bitter are the tears I shed. 

Friendless and loverless I wander to and fro, 
Singing while my faint heart is breaking fast 

with woe, 
Smiling in my sorrow, and singing for my 

bread — 
Lonely and bitter are the tears I shed. 



Harp clang and merry song by stranger door 

and board, 
None ask wherefore tremble my pale lips at 

each word; 
None care why the color from my wan cheek 

has fled — 
Lonely and bitter are the tears I shed. 

Smiling and singing still, tho' hunger, want, 

and woe, 
Freeze the young life-current in my veins as 

I go; 
Begging for my living, yet wishing I were 

dead — 
Lonely and bitter are the tears I shed. 



THE POET AT COUET. 
i. 
He stands alone in the lordly hall — 

He, with the high, pale brow; 
But never a one at the festiva 1 

Was half so great I trow. 
They kiss the hand, and they bend the knee, 

Slaves to an earthly king; 
But the heir of a loftier dynasty 

May scorn that courtly ring. 

n. 

They press, with false and flattering words, 

Around the blood-bought throne; 
But the homage never yet won by swords 

Is his — the anointed one ! 
His sway over every nation 

Extendeth from zone to zone; 
He reigns as a god o'er creation — 

The universe is his own. 



No star on his breast is beaming. 

But the light of his flashing eye 
Beveals, in its haughtier gleaming, 

The conscious majesty. 
For the Poet's crown is the godlike brow — 

Away with that golden thing ! 
Your fealty was never yet due till now — 

Kneel to the god-made King ! 



POEMS OF KATHARINE CONWAY. 



TWO VINES. 

By the garden-gate sprang a flowering vine, 
And it sprouted and strengthened in shower 
and shine. 

It reached out tendrils on every side — 
There was none to prune, there was none to 
guide. 

So it wavered and fell from its tender trust 
And trailed its bright blossoms down in the 
dust. 

"Within the garden its sister- vine 
O'er many a friendly branch did twine. 

Both were fed with the same sweet dew, 
Both in the same kind sunlight grew. 

But one was tended with fondest care, 
And its blooming gladdened the garden fair: 



While the other, as fragrant and pure and 

sweet, 
Was trodden under by passing feet. 

Days go by till the summer is fled. 
The year is waning, and both are dead. 



THE EIEST EED LEAF. 

It gleams amid the foliage green, 
While earth is fair and skies serene:- 
A little, fluttering, scarlet leaf, 
The herald of a coming grief. 

It saith to summer — Even so. 
Thy fading-time is near, I trow; 
And I am come to whisper thee 
Of gloomy days that yet must be. 



A little longer wear thy crown, 
Nor lay thy blooming sceptre down, 
And in the sun's benignant smile 
Forget thy fears a little while. 

I shall not see thee pass away — 
Swift is my coming, brief my stay. 
Scarce doth the blessed daylight shine 
On beauty shorter-lived than mine. 

But know that thou art past thy prime: 
It draweth near thy fading-time — 
I am the herald of thy grief, 
The first red leaf, the first red leaf. 



BEMEMBEEED. 

Eembmbeeed thus, my dearest ! remem- 
bered ! can it be 

That, after all my waywardness, I'm still so 
dear to thee ? 

Though changed thy outward seeming, that 
thy heart no change hath known, 

And the love I thought had left me is still 
my own — my own ? 



1 remembered ! but I said, " I, too, can 

be unheeding." 
With smiling eyes and aching heart I stilled 

sweet memory's pleading — 
Or dreamed I stilled it— murmuring, " Soon 

shall my strength atone 
For the cares and joys he shares not, and the 

triumphs won alone." 

One word from thee, beloved, and the pent- 
up fount's unsealed, 

And all my self-deceiving to sense and soul 
revealed, 



POEMS OF KATHARINE CONWAY, 



And all that lonesome, toilsome past clear- 
pictured unto me, — [for thee ! 
it never had a day, dear, unlit by prayer 

Fore'er divided? — yea, for earth; but our 

lives have wider scope, 
And the bonds between us strengthen with 

our strong supernal hope. 
For oh, my friend, my dearest, how God's 

love halloweth [face of Death ! 

This love that, unaffrighted, looks in the 



IN EXTREMIS. 

Dying ! who says I am dying ? — Come here, 

come close to the bed, 
Look at me — don't speak in whispers; — 

there's worse than death to dread. 
I'm weak, but that is the pain; and this 

fluttering breath ! 
But 'twas often the same before; — it surely 

is not death. 

Raiae the curtain a little; it can't be dusk, 
I know, [an hour ago. 

For I heard the bells ring noontime scarcely 

Why are you here alone? — 'Tis passing 
strange indeed, 

If there's none but you to tend me in my 
saddest, sorest need. 

Only a year since I came here, a proud and 

happy bride, 
Scorning for you all else on earth — yea, and 



False to the Faith of my fathers, my child- 
hood's blessed Faith, 

And all for the short-lived love of a man — 
and now the end is death. 

Is this fast-ripened harvest too bitter for 

your reaping, 
That you stand like a very woman, wringing 

your hands and weeping? 
You love me ? — Would I had never listened 

to lover's vow ! [now ? 

What is your love to me if it cannot help me 



Pray? — Do you bid me pray? — A seemly 
counsel, ay, 

Sweet prayer ! ah, not for me ! — Do you 
know what it is to die ? 

Do you know my rending pain ! — this chill 
fast-gathering gloom ? 

Or my helpless, desperate fear of the Judg- 
ment and the Doom ? 

Mock me not with your tears ! leave me 
— don't you see 

How I yearn for the light, and all the while 
you are keeping the light from me ! 

The love that we called undying in this aw- 
ful shadow dies: 

lost, lost years when I craved no light but 
the baneful light of your eyes ! 

Hark to the rushing of wings ! — shapes of 

horror and dread, 
What would ye have of me that ye crowd 

around my bed ? 
Closer, closer ! — Ah, God, — but in vain I 

cry to Thee, 
Even as I forsook Thee hast Thou forsaken 

me ! 



THE HEAVIEST CROSS OF ALL. 

I've borne full many a sorrow, I've suffered 

many a loss — 
But now, with a strange, new anguish, I 

carry this last dread cross; 
For of this be sure, my dearest, whatever 

thy life befall, 
The cross that our own hands fashion is the 

heaviest cross of all. 

Heavy and hard I made it in the days of my 

fair strong youth, 
Veiling mine eyes from the blessed light, 

and closing my heart to truth. 
Pity me, Lord, whose mercy passeth my 

wildest thought, 
For I never dreamed of the bitter end of the 

work my hands had wrought ! 



POEMS OF MARY E. BLAKE. 



ros) 



In the sweet morn's flush and fragrance I 

wandered o'er dewy meadows 
And I hid from the fervid noontide glow in 

the cool, green, woodland shadows; 
And I never recked as I sang aloud in my 

weird and wilful glee, 
Of the mighty woe that was drawing near 

to darken the world for me. 

But it came at last, my dearest, — what need 

to tell thee how ? 
Mayst never know of the wild, wild woe that 

my heart is hearing now ! 



Over my summer's glory crept a damp and 

chilling shade, 
And I staggered under the heavy cross that 

my sinful hands had made. 

I go where the shadows deepen, and the end 

seems far off yet — 
God keep thee safe from the sharing of this 

woful late regret ! 
Eor of this he sure, my dearest, whatever 

thy life befall, 
The crosses we make for ourselves, alas ! are 

the heaviest ones of all ! 



POEMS OF MARY E. BLAKE. 



WOMEN OF THE REVOLUTION. 

Heakt of the Patriot touched by Freedom's 
kindling breath, 
Pouring its burning words from lips by 
passion fired ! [of death ! 

Sword of the Soldier drawn in the awful face 
Bounteous pen of the Scholar tracing its 
theme inspired ! 
Wealth of the rich man's coffers, help of the 
poor man's dole ! 
Strength of the sturdy arm and might of 
the Statesman's fame, 
These be fit themes for praise, in days that 
tried the soul. [of woman's name ? 
But where in the list is room for mention 

For hers are the virtues cast in finer and 
gentler mould; 
In quiet and peaceful paths her nature 
finds its scope. 
Stronger in loving than hating, fond where 
the man is bold, 
She works with the tools of patience and 
■wonderful gifts of hope ! 



Hers are the lips that kiss, the hands that 
nurse and heal, 
The tender voice that speaks in accents 
low and sweet; 
What hath her life to do with clash of mus- 
ket and steel, 
Who sits at the gate of home with chil- 
dren about her feet ? 

Nay ! In the sturdy tree is there one sap at 
the root, 
That mounts to the stately trunk and fills 
it with power and pride, 
And one for the tender branch that bour- 
geons in flower and fruit, 
Casting its welcome shadow on all who 



Nay ! When the man is called the woman 
must swiftly rise. 
Ready to strengthen and bless, ready to 
follow or wait; 
Ready to crush in her heart the anguish of 
tears and sighs, 
Reading the message of God in the blind, 
decrees of Fate ! 



770 



POEMS OF MARY E. BLAKE. 



So, in days of the past, when Liberty raised 
her voice, 
Weak as a new-born babe in the cradle 
who wakes and calls, 
And the tremulous accents ranHirough the 
beautiful land of her choice — 
As into the heart of the mother the cry of 
her infant falls — 
So did hand of the woman reach to hand of 
the man, 
Helping with comfort and love, steeling 
his own for the strife; 
Till the calm of his steadfast soul through his 
wavering pulses ran, 
And the blow of the husband's arm was 
nerved from the heart of the wife. 

Wearing a homespun gown, or ruling with 
easy sway 
The world of fashion and pride, gilded by 
fortune's sun, 
Rich or poor, who asks, as we read the record 
to-day? 
Lowly or great, who cares how the poor 
distinctions run ? 
Hallowed be every name in the roll of honor 
and fame, 
Since oil hearthstone and field they kindled 
the sacred fire, 
Since with fostering breath they nurtured 
Liberty's flame 
And set it aloft on the heights to which 
feet aspire. 



Molly of Monmouth, staunch in the place of 
her fallen brave, 
Drowning the cry of defeat in the lusty 
roar of her gun; 
Rebecca, the Lady of Buckhead, who, eager 
for Freedom, gave 
Home of her heart to the burning, and 
smiled when the work was done; 
Abigail Adams of Quincy, noble of soul and 
race, [taff and pen; 

Reader of men and books, wielder of dis- 
Martha Wilson of Jersey, moving with 
courtly grace; 
Deborah Samson, fighting side by side 
with the men; 



Frances Allen, the Tory, choosing the better 
part 
Led by Ethan the daring, to follow his 
glorious way; 
Elizabeth Zane of Wheeling, timid, yet brave 
of heart, 
Bearing her burden of powder through 
smoke and flame of the fray ! 
Each, on the endless list, through length 
and breadth of the land, 
Winning her deathless place on the golden 
scroll of time, 
Fair as in old Greek days the women of 
Sparta stand 
Linked with the heroes' fame and sharing 
their deeds sublime. 

Stronger than we of to-day, in nerve and 
muscle and will, 
Braver than we of to-day the burden of 
women to bear, 
Glad from their wholesome breasts the soft 
mouths of children to fill, 
Holding the .crown of the mother as 
proudest that women could wear; 
Asking no larger sphere than that in which 
bravely shine 
Sunshine of home and heart, stars of duty 
and love; 
Full of a purer faith that rested in Trust 
Divine [Heaven above. 

And lifted their simple lives to glory of 

Plain of speech and of dress, as fitted their 
age and place, 
Meet companions for men of sterner creed 
and frame; 
Yet knowing the worth of a word, and fair 
with the old-time grace, 
That perfumes like breath of a flower the 
page that holds their name; 
Trained within closer bounds to question 
issue and cause, 
Small the reach of their thought to the 
modern student looks; 
But the stream within narrower banks runs 
deeper by nature's laws, 
And theirs was a wiser lore than the shal- 
low knowledge of books. 






POEMS OF MARY E. BLAKE. 



771 



Not. in the Forum's seats and aping the 
wrangler's course 
Did they strive with barbed word the tar- 
get of right to reach, 
But moulding the will of their kind with 
eloquent, silent force, 
Stronger than sting of the pen, deeper 
than clamor of speech; 
Honor they taught, and right, and noble 
courage of truth. 
Strength to suffer and bear in holy Lib- 
erty's need; 
Framing through turbulent years and fiery 
season of youth, 
Soul for the valor of thought — hand for 
the valor of deed. 

AVell that with praise of the brave song of 
their triumph should blend ! 
Well that in joy of the land fame of their 
glory find part ! 
For theirs is the tone of the chord that holds 
its full strength to the end, 
"When music that dies on the ear still lin- 
gers and sings in the heart. 
Letter and word may die, but still the spirit 
survives, 
Rounding in ages unborn each frail dis- 
torted plan; 
And fittest survival is that when souls of 
mothers and wives 
Bloom in immortal deeds through life of 
child and man. 



HOW IRELAND ANSWERED. 

A TRADITION OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION. 

Whereso'er in song or story 
Runs one theme of ancient glory, 
Whereso'er in word or action lives one spark 
for Freedom's shrine, 
Read it out before the people, 
Ring it loud in street and steeple, 
'Till the hearts of those who listen thrill be- 
neath its power divine ! 



And, as lives immortal, gracious, 
The great deed of young Horatius, 
Or that gauntlet of defiance flung by Tell in 
Gessler's face, 
So for him who claims as sireland 
The green hills of holy Ireland, 
Let the speech of old John Parnell speak its 
lesson to his race 
******* 
'Twas in days when, sore tormenting, 
With a malice unrelenting, 
England pushed her youngest step-child past 
endurance into strife, 
'Till with weak, frail hands uplifted— 
With but hate and courage gifted — 
She began the desperate struggle that should 
end in death— or life. 

'Twas the fourth long year of fighting; 

Want, and woe, and famine, biting, 

Nipped the heart-strings of the " Rebels," 

chilled their pulse with cold despair; 

Southern swamp and Northern mountain 

Fed full streams to war's red fountain, 

And the gloom of hopeless struggle darkened 

all the heavy air. 

Lincoln's troops in wild disorder, 
Beaten on the Georgian border; 
Five score craft, off Norfolk harbor, scuttled 
deep beneath the tide; 
Hessian thieves, in swaggering sallies, 
Raiding fair New England valleys, 
While before Savannah's trenches, brave 
Pulaski, fighting, died ! 



Indian allies warwhoops : 
Where Wyoming's roofs are blazing; 
Clinton, full of pomp and bluster, sailing 
down on Charleston; 
And the people, faint with striving, 
Worn with aimless, sad contriving, 
Tired at last of Freedom's battle, heedless if 
'tis lost or won ! 

Shall now England pause in mercy, , 
When the frozen plains of Jersey 
Tracked with blood, show pathways trodden 
by bare feet of wounded men ? 



POEMS OF MARY E. BLAKE. 



When the drained and tortured nation 
Holds no longer gold or ration 
To upbuild her broken fortune, or to fill her 
veins again ? 

Nay ! but striking swift and surely, 
Now to gain the end securely, 
Stirling asks for re-inf orcements — volunteers 
to speed the cause; 
And King George, in mandate royal, 
Speeds amid his subjects loyal, 
Calls for dutiful assistance to avenge his 
outraged laws. 

In the name of law and order, 
Sends across the Irish border 
To the wild and reckless spirits of whose 
daring well he knows: 
" Ho ! brave fools who fight for pleasure ! 
Here is chance for fame and treasure; 
Teach those brazen Yankee devils the full 
force of Irisli blows." 

Old John Parnell, cooj and quiet, — 
Strange result on Celtic diet- 
Colonel he of volunteers, and well beloved 
chief of men, 
Reads the royal proclamation, 
Answers for himself and nation — 
Ye who heed the voice of honor, list the 
ringing words again: 

" Still, as in her ancient story, 
Ireland fights for right and glory ! 

Still her sons, through blood and danger, 
hold unstained their old renown; 
But by God who reigneth o'er me, 
By the Motherland that bore me, 

Never Irish gold or valor helps to strike a 
patriot down ! " 
******* 
Thus, 'mid themes immortal, gracious, 
Like the deed of young Horatius, 

Or that gauntlet of defiance flung by Tell in 



Let the Celt who claims as sireland 
The green hills of holy Ireland, 
Place the speech of old John Parnell, for the 
glory of his race. 



WITH A FOUR-LEAFED CLOVER. 

Love, be true to her ! Life, be dear to her ! 
Health, stav close to her ! Joy, draw near to 

her ! 
Fortune, find what your gifts can do for her; 
Search your treasure-house through and 

through for her; 
Follow her steps the wide world over, — 
You must ! for here is the Four-leafed 

clover ! 



THE FIRST STEPS. 

To-xight as the tender gloaming 

Was sinking in evening's gloom, 
And only the blaze of the firelight 

Brightened the dark'ning room, 
I laughed with the gay heart gladness 

That only to mothers is known, 
For the beautiful brown-eyed baby 

Took his first steps alone ! 

Hurriedly running to meet him 

Came trooping the household band, 
Joyous, loving, and eager 

To reach him a helping hand, 
To watch him with silent rapture, 

To cheer him with happy noise,— 
My one little fair-faced daughter 

And four brown romping boys. 

Leaving the sheltering arms 

That fain would bid him rest 
Close to the love and the longing, 

Near to the mother's breast, — 
Wild with daring and laughter, 

Looking askance at me, 
He stumbled across through the shadows 

To rest at his father's knee. 

Baby, my dainty darling, 

Stepping so brave and bright 
With flutter of lace and ribbon 

Out of my arms to-night, 
Helped in thy pretty ambition 

With tenderness blessed to see, 
Sheltered, upheld, and protected — 

How will the last steps be ? 



POEMS OF MARY E. BLAKE. 



773 



See, we are all beside you 


For then the tiny fingers 


Urging and beckoning on, 


Creep softly to your face, 


Watching lest auglit betide you 


With a touch that thrills and lingers; 


Till the safe, near goal is won, 


And the rosy palms find place 


Guiding the faltering footsteps 


To come pressing and caressing with sweet 


That tremble and fear to fall — 


and clinging touch, 


How will it be, my darling, 


Not teasing you too little, and yet not over 


"With the last sad step of all ? 


much; 




While full of love and laughter the pretty 


Nay ! shall I dare to question, 


blue eyes glow, 


Knowing that One more fond 


And red lips tightly puckered pout roguishly 


Than all our tenderest loving 


below, 


Will guide the weak feet beyond ! 


— tell me, ye who know it, is there in this 


And knowing beside, my dearest, 


world such bliss 


That whenever the summons, 'twill be 


As when the bonny bairnie gives his little 


But a stumbling step through the shadow, 


sailor kiss ! 


Then rest — at the Father's knee ! 




THE LITTLE SAILOR KISS. 






OUR RECORD. 


kisses they are plenty 




As blossoms on the tree ! 


Who casts a slur on Irish worth, a stain on 


And be they one' or twenty 


Irish fame, — 


They're sweet to you and me; 


Who dreads to own his Irish blood or wear 


And some are for the forehead, and some are 


his Irish name, — 


for the lips, 


Who scorns the warmth of Irish hearts, the 


And some are for the rosy cheeks, and some 


clasp of Irish hands ? 


for finger tips, 


Let us but raise the vail to-night and shame 


And some are for the dimples, — but the 


him as he stands. 


sweetest one is this, 




When the bonny, bonny bairnie, gives his 


The Irish fame ! It rests enshrined within 


little sailor kiss. 


its own proud light, 




Wherever sword or tongue or pen has fash- 


I will kiss this sailor, 


ioned deed of might; 


This sailor lad so true ! 


From battle charge of Fontenoy to G rattan's 


I would not kiss a tailor, 


thunder tone, 


A carpenter, or nailer, 


It holds its storied past on high, unrivaled 


But I will kiss this sailor 


and alone. 


With bonny eyes of blue! 




With a sonsy smile, and yellow hair to snare 


The Irish blood ! Its crimson tide has 


the sunbeams in, 


watered hill and plain 


With a laughing mouth, and a rosy cheek, 


Wherever there were wrongs to crush, or 


and a dimple in the chin, 


freemen's rights to gain; 


Three years old, and a heart of gold — ah, 


No dastard thought, no coward fear, has 


who would want to miss 


held it tamely by 


The chance to meet my darling with his little 


When there were noble deeds to do, or noble 


sailor kiss. 


deaths to die ! 



774 



POEMS OF MARY E. BLAKE. 



The Irish heart! The Irish heart! God 

keep it fair and free, 
The fullness of its kindly thought, its wealth 

of honest glee, 
Its generous strength, its ardent faith, its 

uncomplaining trust, 
Though every worshiped idol breaks and 

crumbles into dust. 

And Irish hands, — aye, lift them up; em- 
browned by honest toil, 

The champions of our western world, the 
guardians of the soil; 

When flashed their battle swords aloft, a 
waiting world might see 

What Irish hands could do and dare to keep 
a nation free. 

They bore our starry flag above through bas- 
tion, gate, and wall, 

They stood before the foremost rank, the 
bravest of them all; 

And when before the cannon's mouth they 
held the foe at bay, 

never could old Ireland's heart beat 
prouder than that day ! 

So when a craven fain would hide the birth- 
mark of his race, 

Or slightly speak of Erin's sons before her 
children's face, 

Breathe no weak word of scorn or shame, 
but crush him where he stands 

With Irish worth and Irish fame, as won by 
Irish hands. 



A DEAD SUMMER 

What lacks the summer ? 

Not roses blowing, 
Nor tall white lilies with fragrance rife, 
Nor green things gay with the bliss of grow- 
ing; 
Nor glad things drunk with the wine of 
life, 
Nor flushing of clouds in blue skies shining, 
Nor soft wind murmurs to rise and fall, 



Nor birds for singing, nor vines for twin- 
ing.— 
Three little buds I miss, no more, 
That blossomed last year at my garden 
door, — 

And that is all. 

What lacks the summer ? 

Not waves a-quiver 
With arrows of light from the hand of 
dawn, 
Nor drooping of boughs by the dimpling 
river, 
Nor nodding of grass on the windy lawn, 
Nor tides unswept upon silver beaches, 
Nor rustle of leaves on tree-tops tall, 
Nor dapple of shade in woodland reaches, — 
Life pulses gladly on vale and hill, 
But three little hearts that I love are 
still,— 

And that is all. 

What lacks the summer ? 

O light and savor, 
And message of healing the world above ! 
Gone is the old-time strength and flavor, 

Gone is its old-time peace and love ! 
Gone is the bloom of the shimmering mead- 
ows, 
Music of birds as they sweep and fall, — 
All the great world is dim with shadow, 
Because no longer mine eyes can see 
The eyes that made summer and life for 



me,- 



And that is all. 



SONNET. 



To- day amid the sobbing of the rain, 

While gaunt November with pale finger 

tips 

Proffers the cup of doom to Nature's lips 

And scowling mocks her bitter moan of pain, 

I cannot mark the strife 'twixt life and death 

For joy of one fair thought that dwells 

with me, — ■ 
A summer hillside, sleeping by the sea, 



POEMS OF MARY E. BLAKE. 



775 



Made glad with bloom and song-birds' voice- 


See ! Even the clod 


ful breath; 


Thrills, with life's glad passion shaken; 


Fair as a dream that fills a winter's night 


The vagabond weeds with their vagrant 


With peace and love, it stirs my waking 


train 


hours 


Laugh in the sun and nod in the rain, 


With hum of brown bees deep in chaliced 


The blue sky smiles like the eye of God, — 


flowers, 


Only my dead do not waken ! 


With blue waves dancing in the golden light, 




And one swift flight of swallows drifting 


Dead ! — There is the word 


by, 


That I sit in the darkness and ponder ! 


Blown like a cloud across the summer sky ! 


Why should the river, the sky, and the 




Babble of summer and joy to me, 




While a strong true heart with its pulse un- 


DEAD. 


stirred 




Lies hushed in the silence yonder ? 


Dead ! That is the word 




That rings through my brain till it crazes ! 


Lord ! Lord ! How long 


Dead, while the Mayflowers bud and 


Ere we rise to Thy heights supernal 


blow, 


Ere the soul may read what Thy spirit 


While the green creeps over the white 


saith; 


of the snow, 


" Life that must fade, is not life but 


While the wild woods ring with the song of 


death. 


the bird, 


Lift up thine eyes, soul ! Be strong; 


And the fields are a-bloom with daisies ! 


For Death is the Life Eternal ! " 



POEMS OF O'DONOVAN ROSSA. 



JILLEN ANDY. 

When O'Donovan Rossa was in prison in England, he wrote 
•the powerful and deeply pathetic poem of " Jillen Andy," a 
study from Irish life which he who reads can never forget. 
In his " Prison Life," Eossa says: " Jillen Andy lived at the 
other side of the street in Rosscarberry -when I was a child. 
Her husband, Andy Hayes, was a linen weaver and -worked 
for my father ere I was born. He died, too, before I came 
into the world, but when I did come I think I formed the 
acquaintance of Jillen as soon as I did that of my mother. 
Jillen was left a widow with four helpless children, and all 
the neighbors were kind to her. The eldest of the sons 
''Ji.si >'il, and the first sight I got of a ' red-coat ' was when he 
came home on furlough. The three other sons were Char- 
ley, Thade and Andy. Charley died in '65. Andy 'listed, 
and died in Bombay, and Thade and his mother fell victims 
to the famine of '47. Thade met me one day, and spoke to 
me as I state in the following lines. I went to the grave- 
yard with him. I dug, and he shovelled up the earth till 
the grave was about two feet deep. Then he talked about 
its being deep enough, that there would be too great a load 
on her, and that he could stay up and 'watch' her for 
some time. By-and-by we saw four or five men coming in 
the church-gate with a door on their shoulders bearing the 
cofnnless Jillen. She was laid in the grave. Her head did 
not rest firmly on the stone on which it was pillowed, and 
as it would turn aside and rest on the cheek when I took 
my bands aw r ay from it, one of the men asked me to hand 
him the stone. I did so, and covering it with a red spotted 
handkerchief he took out of his pocket, he gave it to me 
again and I settled Jillen's head steadily on it. Then 1 was 
told to loose the strings, to take out a pin that appeared, to 
lay her apron over her face, and come up. To this day I can 
see how softly the man handled the shovel, how quietly he 
laid the earth down at her feet, how the heap kept rolling 
and creeping up until it covered her head, and how the big 
men pulled theirhats overtheir eyes." 

"It takes an Irishman or Irishwoman," Rossa says, 
"brought up among the Irish-speaking people, to under- 
stand several passages in 'Jillen Andy ' "— 
1 " He'd walk the ' eeriest ' place a moonlight night." 
On a moonlight night the fairies are out most. 
" He'd whistle in the dark— even in bed." 

Whistling in the dark brings on the fairies— particularly 
-whistling in bed. 



To tie anything, or pin anything around a corpse, and 
fcury the corpse so pinned or tied, prevents the spirit from 
coming to see us — keeps the spirit tied and in prison in the 



other world. 
" Tears would disturb poor Jillen i 



i her last long sleep.' 



If you cry over a corpse in Ireland, every tear you drop 
on the corpse's clothes will burn a hole in those clothes in 
the other world. AU strings are cut or loosed and all pins 
taken out before the corpse is put in the coffin. 



" Come to the graveyard, if you're not afraid, 
I'm going to dig my mother's grave, she's 
dead, 
And I want some one that will bring the 
spade, 
For Andy's out of home, and Charlie's 
sick in bed." 

Thade Andy was a simple-spoken fool, 
With whom in early days I loved to stroll, 

He'd often take me on his back to school, 
And make the master laugh himself, he 
was so droll. 

In songs and ballads he took great delight, 
And prophecies of Ireland yet being freed, 

And singing them by our fireside at night, 
I learned songs from Thade before I 
learned to read. 

And I have still "by heart" his "Colleen 
Fhune," 
His " Croppy Boy," his "Phoenix of the 
Hall," 
And I could " rise " his " Rising of the 
Moon," 
If I could sing in prison cell — or sing at all. 

He'd walk the " eeriest " place a moonlight 
night, 
He'd whistle in the dark — even in bed; 
In fairy fort or graveyard, Thade was quite 
As fearless of a ghost as any ghost of 
Thade. 



POEMS OF O'DONOVAN ROSSA. 



777 



No* in the dark churchyard we work away, 

The shovel in his hand, in mine the spade, 

And seeing Thade cry I cried myself that 

day, 

For Thade was fond of me and I was fond 

of Thade. 

But after twenty years why now will such 

A bubbling spring up to my eyelids start? 
Ah ! there be things that ask not leave to 
touch 
The fountain of the eyes or feelings of the 
heart. 

" This load of clay will break her bones, I 
fear, 
For when alive she was'nt over strong. 
We'll dig no deeper, I can watch her here 
A month or so, sure nobody will do me 
wrong." 

Four men bear Jillen on a door — 'tis light, 
They have not much of Jillen but her 
frame. 
No mourners come, for 'tis believed the sight 
Of any death or sickness now begets the 
same. 

And those brave hearts that volunteer to 
touch 
Plague- stricken death are tender as they're 
hrave, 
They raise poor Jillen from her tainted 
couch, 
And shade their swimming eyes while lay- 
ing her in the grave. 

I stand within that grave, nor wiae nor deep, 
The slender, wasted body at my feet; 

What wonder is it if strong men will weep 
O'er famine-stricken Jillen in her winding- 
sheet. 

Her head I try to pillow on a stone, 

But it will hang one side, as if the breath 

Of famine gaunt into the corpse had blown, 
And blighted in the nerves the rigid 
strength of death. 



" Hand me that stone, child. " In his hands 

'tis placed; 

Down-channelling his cheeks are tears like 

rain; 

The stone within his handkerchief is cased, 

And then I pillow on it Jillen's head again. 

" Untie the nightcap string," " Unloose that 
lace," 
" Take out that pin," " There, now, she's 
nicely — rise, 
But lay the apron first across her face, 
So that the earth won't touch her lips or 
blind her eyes. 

" Don't grasp the shovel too tightly — there, 
make a heap, 
Steal down each shovelful quietly — there, 
let it creep 
Over her poor body lightly; friend, do not 
weep, 
Tears would disturb old Jillen in her last, 
long sleep." 

And Thade was faithful to his watch and 

ward; [haste 

Where'er he'd spend the day, at night he'd 

With his few sods of turf to that churchyard, 

Where he was laid himself before the 

month was past. 

Then Andy died a soldiering in Bombay, 
And Charlie died in Ross the other day, 

Now, no one lives to blush because I say 
That Jillen Andy went uncoffined to the 
clay. 

E'en all are gone that buried Jillen, save 
One banished man who dead alive remains, 

The little boy that stood within the grave 
Stands for his country's cause in England's 
prison ■ 



How oft in dreams that burial scene appears, 
Through death, eviction, prison, exile, 
home, 
Through all the suns and moons of twenty 
years — 
And oh ! how short these years compared 
with years to come. 



POEMS OF O'DONOVAN KOSSA. 



Some things are strongly on the mind im- 
pressed, 
And others faintly imaged there, it seems; 
And this is why, when reason sinks to rest, 
Phases of life do show and shadow forth 
in dreams. 

And this is why in dreams I see the face 
Of Jillen Andy looking in my own, 

The poet-hearted man— the pillow case, 
The spotted handkerchief that softened 
the hard stone. 

Welcome those memories of scenes of youth, 
That nursed my hate of tyranny and 
wrong, 
That helmed my manhood in the path of 
truth, 
And help me now to suffer calmly and be 
strong. 



And suffering calmly is a trial test, 

When at the tyrant's foot and felon-drest, 

When State and master jailer do their best, 
To make you feel degraded, spiritless, op- 
prest. 

When barefoot before Dogberry, and when 
He mocks your cause of 'prisonment, and 
speaks 
Of " Thieves," " State orders," " No dis- 
tinctions " — then, 
Because you speak at work — hard bread 
and board for weeks. 

Or when he says, " Too well you're treated, 
for 
Times were you'd hang;" "You were 
worse fed at home; " 
" You can't be more degraded than you are; " 
"You should be punished also in the world 
to come." 

When sneer, and jeer, and insult follow fast, 
And heavenward you look, or look him 
down, 
He rages and commands you to be classed 
And slaved amongst the slaves of infamied 
renown. 



When England — worthy of the mean and 
base — 
Smites you when bound, flings outrage in . 
your face, 
When hand to hand with thieves she gives 
you place, 
To scoff at freedom for your land and 
scattered race: 

To suffer calmly when the cowardly wound, 
From wanton insult, makes the veins to- 
swell 
With burning blood, is hard, though doubly 
bound 
In prison within prison — a blacker hell in 
hell. 

The body starved to break the spirit down, 
That will not bend beneath the scourging 
rod; 
The dungeon dark that pearls the prisoner's 
crown, 
And stars the suffering that awakens Free- 
dom's God. 

Thus all who ever won had to endure 

Thus human suffering proves good at last, 

The painful operation works the cure, 
The health-restoring draught is bitter to 
the taste. 



'Tis suffering for a trampled land, that suf- 
fering 
Bears heavenly fruit, and all who ever trod 
In Freedom's path, found heavenly help 
when offering 
Their sacrifice of suffering to Freedom's 
God. 






MY PRISON CHAMBER IS IRON 

LINED. 

"The following verses," says Eossa, "strung together 
during the cold nights and hungry days in the blackhole of 
Chatham Prison, will show how much my mind was filled 
with the Englishmen's Bible hypocrisy : 

My prison chamber now is iron lined, 

An iron closet and an iron blind. 

But bars, and bolts, and chains can never 

bind 
To tyrant's will the freedom-loving mind. 



POEMS OP O'DONOVAN ROSS A. 



779 



Beneath the tyrant's heel we may be trod, 
We may be scourged beneath the tyrant's 

rod, 
But tyranny can never ride rough-shod 
O'er the immortal spirit-work of God. 

And England's Bible tyrants are, Lord ! 
Of any tyrants out the crudest horde, 
Who'll chain their Scriptures to a fixture 

board 
Before a victim starved, and lashed, and 

gored. 

They tell such tales of countries far away, 
How in Japan, and Turkey, and Cathay, 
A man when scourged is forced salaams to 

pay. 

While they themselves do these same things 
to-day. 

The bands, the lash, the scream, the swoon, 

the calm, 
The minister, the Bible, and the psalm, 
The doctor then the bloody seams to balm, 
" Attention, 'tention," now for the salaam. 

I don't salaam them and their passions roll, 
Again they stretch me in the damp black- 
hole, 
Again they deal to me the famine dole, 
To bend to earth the heaven-created soul. 

Without a bed or board on which to lie, 
Without a drink of water if I'm dry, 
Without a ray of light to strike the eye, 
But s ne vacant, dreary, dismal sky. 

The bolts are drawn, the drowsy hinges 

creak, 
The doors are groaning, and the side. walls 

shake, 
The light darts in, the day begins to break, 
Ho, prisoner! from your dungeon dreams 

awake. 

Attention, '"tention," '"tention," now is 

crjed, 
The English master jailer stands outside, 
And he's supposed to wear the lion's hide, 
But I will not salaam his royal pride. 



" Rossa, salute the Governor," cries one, 
The Governor cries out — "Come on, come 

on," 
My tomb is closed, I'm happy they are gone, 
Well — as happy as I ever feel alone. 

Be calm, my soul, let state assassins frown, 

'Tis chains and dungeons pearl a prisoner's 
crown, 

'Tis suffering draws God's choicest blessings 
down, 

And gives to freedom's cause its fair re- 
nown. 

Rossa adds the following " Secret instructions from the 
authorities to the prison governor:" 

That we are base assassins — he says so — 
And liars and hypocrites:— 'tis well to know 
That he's at least an unrepenting foe. 
To cast him out as far as we can throw, 
Is now our bounden duty. This we owe 
To England's Majesty. Then keep him low, 
Yet treat him doctorly — be sure and slow 
Leaving no record anywhere to show 
That aught but nature gave the conquering 

blow; 
And once cast out from this our heaven be- 
low, 
What care we if to heaven above he go! 



A VISIT EEOM MY WIFE. 

In July, 1S70, while O'Donovan Eossa was in Chatham 
Prison, England, he was allowed a visit from his wife. He 
says : ' l It was as curious a position as ever a married couple 
were seen in, to see us sitting in this glass house with Prin- 
cipal Warder King as sentry outside the glass door ; and 
was it not a curious place for her to reproach me with in- 
gratitude because I never wrote a line of poetry for her 
since we were married ? When I went to my cell that 
eveningl wrote the following lines." 

A single glance, and that glance the first, 
And her image was fixed in my mind and 

nursed; 
And now it is woven with all my schemes, 
And it rules the realm of all my dreams. 

One of Heaven's best gifts in an earthly 

mould, 
With a figure Appelles might paint of old — 



POEMS OF O'BONOVAN ROSSA. 



All 



maiden's charms with 



And the blossom and bloom of the peach in 
her face. 

And the genius that flashes her bright black 
eye 

Is the face of the sun in a clouded sky; 

She has noble thoughts — she has noble 
aims 

And these thoughts on her tongue are spark- 
ling gems. 

"With a gifted mind and a spirit meek 

She would right the wronged and assist the 

weak; 
She would scorn dangers to cheer the brave, 
She would smite oppression and free the 

slave. 

Yet a blighted life is my loved one's part, 
And a death-cold shroud is around her heart, 
For winds from the " clouds of fate" have 

blown 
That force her to face the hard world alone. 

And a daughter she of a trampled land, 
With its children exiled, prisoned, banned; 
And she vowed her love to a lover whom 
The tyrant had marked for a felon's doom. 

And snatched from her side ere the honey- 
moon waned: 

In the dungeons of England he lies en- 
chained; [slave 

And the bonds that bind him "for life" a 

Are binding his love to his living grave. 

He would sever the link of such hopeless 

love, 
Were that sentence "for ever" decreed 

above. [life — 

For the pleasures don't pay for the pains of 
To be living in death with a widowed wife. 

A single glance, and that glance the first, 
And her image was fixed in my mind and 

nursed, 
And now -she's the woof of my worldly 

schemes, [dreams. 

And she sits enthroned as the queen of my 



A VISIT TO MY HUSBAND IX 
PRISON. 

MAY, 1866. 

Within the precincts of the prison bounds, 
Treading the sunlit courtyard to a hall, 

Roomy and unadorned, where the light 
Thro' screenless windows glaringly did fall. 

Within the precincts of the prison walls, 
With rushing memories and bated breath, 

With heart elate and light swift step that 
smote 
Faint echoes in this house of living death. 

Midway I stood in bright expectancy, 

Tightly I clasped my babe, my eager sight 

Restlessly glancing down the long, low room 
To where a door bedimmed the walls' pure 
white. 

They turned — the noiseless locks; the portal 

fell [room 

With clank of chain wide open, and the 

Held him — my wedded love. My heart stood 

still [doom. 

With sudden shock, with sudden sense of 

My heart stood still that had with gladsome 

bound [pear — 

Counted the moments ere he should ap- 

Drew back at sight so changed, and shivering 

waited, 

Pulselessly waited while his steps drew 

near ! 

Oh ! for a moment's twilight that might hide 
The harsh tanned features once so soft 
and fair ! 
The shrunken eyes that with a feeble flash 
Smiled on my presence and his infant's 
there ! 



Oh ! for a shadow on the cruel sun 

That mocked thy father, Baby, with his 
glare; 
Oh ! for the night of nothingness or death 
Ere thou, my love, this felon garb should 
wear ! 



POEMS OF O'DONOVAN ROSSA. 



781 



It needed not these passionate, pain-wrung 
words, [lips, 

Falling with sad distinctness from thy 
To tell a tale of insult, abject toil, 

And day-long labor hewing Portland 



It needed not, my love, this anguished 
glance, 
This fading fire within thy gentle eyes, 
To rouse the torpid voices of my heart, 
Till all the sleeping heavens shall hear 
their cries. 

God of the wronged, and can Thy vengeance 
sleep ? [day ? 

And shall our night of anguish know no 
And can Thy justice leave our souls to weep 

Yet, and yet longer o'er our land's decay ! 

Must we still cry — " How long, Lord, how 
long?" 
For seven red centuries a country's woe 
Has wept the prayer in tears of blood, and 
still 
Our tears to-night for fresher victims flow ! 



EDWARD DUFFY.* 

The world is growing darker to me — darker 

day by day, 
The stars that shone upon life's paths are 

vanishing away, 
Some setting and some shifting, only one 

that changes never, 
'Tis the guiding star of liberty that blazes 

bright as ever. 

Liberty sits mountain high, and slavery has 

birth 
In the hovels, in the marshes, in the lowest 

dens of earth; 
The tyrants of the world pitfall-pave the 

path between, 
And o'ershadow it with scaffold, prison, 

block and guillotine. 



* An Irish patriot and fellow-prisoner who died 
English prison. 



The gloomy way is brightened when we walk 

with those we love, 
The heavy load is lightened when we bear 

and they approve; 
The path of life grows darker to me as I 

journey on, 
For the truest hearts that travelled it are 

falling one by one. 

The news of death is saddening even in fes- 
tive hull, 

But when 'tis heard through prison bars, 'tis 
saddest then of all, 

Where there's none to share the sorrow in. 
the solitary cell, 

In the prison, within prison. — a blacker hell 
in hell. 

That whisper through the grating has 

thrilled through all my veins, 
" Duffy is dead ! " a noble soul has slipped 

the tyrant's chains, 
And whatever wounds they gave him, their 

lying books will show, 
How they very kindly treated him, more like 

a friend than foe. 

For these are Christian Pharisees, the hypo- 
crites of creeds, 

With the Bible on their lips, and the devil 
in their deeds, 

Too merciful in public gaze to take our lives 
away, 

Too anxious here to plant in us the seed of 
life's decay. 

Those Christians stand between us and the 
God above our head, 

The sun and moon they prison, and with- 
hold the daily bread, 

Entomb, enchain, and starve us, that the 
mind they may control, 

And quench the fire that burns in the ever- 
living soul. 

To lay your head upon the block for faith in 

Freedom's God, 
To fall in fight for Freedom in the land your 

fathers trod; 



POEMS OF O'DONOYAX ROSSA. 



For Freedom on the scaffold high to breathe 

your latest breath, 
Or anywhere 'gainst tyranny is dying a noble 

death. 

Still, sad and lone, was yours, Ned, 'mid the 
jailers of your race, 

With none to press the cold white hand, with 
none to smooth the face; 

With none to take the dying wish to home- 
land friend or brother, 

To kindred mind, to promised bride, or to 
the sorrowing mother. 

I tried to get to speak to you before you 

passed aw # ay, 
As you were dying so near me, and so far 

from Castlerea, 
But the Bible-mongers spurned me off, when 

at their office door 
I asked last month to see you — now I'll never 

see you more. 

If spirits once released from earth could 

visit earth again, 
You'd come and see me here, Ned, but for 

these we look in vain; 
In the dead-house you are lying, and I'd 

" wake " you if I could. 
But they'll wake you in Loughglin, Ned, in 

that cottage by the wood. 

For the mother's instinct tells her that the 

dearest one is dead — 
That the gifted mind, the noble soul, from 

earth to heaven is fled, 
As the girls rush toward the door and look 

toward the trees, 
To catch the sorrow-laden wail, that's borne 

on the breeze. 

Thus the path of life grows darker to me — 

darker day by day, 
The stars that flashed their light on it are 

vanishing away, 
Some setting and some shifting, but that 

one which changes never, 
The beacon light of liberty that blazes bright 

as ever. 



IN MILLBANK PRISON, LONDON. 
1866. 

I have no life at present.my life is in the 

past; 
I have none in the future, if the present is 

to last; 
The "Dead Past" only mirrors now the 

memories of life, 
The fatherland, the hope of years, the friend, 

the child and wife. 



Then am I dead at present? Yes, dead 

while buried here — 
Dead to the wife, the child and friend, to all 

the world holds dear; 
Dead to myself, for life is death to one con 

demned to dwell 
His life-long years in exile in a convict prison 

cell. 

Though dead unto the present, I live in the 

" Dead Past," 
And thoughts of dead and living things 

crowd on me thick and fast; 
E'en when reason is reposing they revel in 

my brain, 
And I meet the wife, the child and friend, 

in fatherland again. 



The goddess on her throne resits — the cher- 
ished dreams are fled — 

Were they but phantoms of the past to show 
the past is dead? 

Past, Present, Future, what to me ! — how 
little man can see — 

Am I dead unto the world? — or the world 
to me? 

God only knows. I only know that which 

to man He gives, 
The love of Liberty and Truth — the sonl, 

the spirit lives; 
And though its house of clay be bound by 

. England's iron hand, 
It freely flies to wife and child, and friend 

and fatherland. 



POEMS OF O'DOXOVAN EOSSA. 



:y;.s 



SMUAINTE BEOIN- THOUGHTS OF 
SOEBOW. 

The following is a translation of the Gaelic poet Craoibhin 
Aoibhin'a noble song, " Thoughts of Sorrow " with the first 
jrtanza in the original Irish :— 

Is dorcha anocht i an oidhche, ni fheicim 

aon reult amhain, 
*Gus is dorcha trom ata smuainte mo chroidh- 

se ta sgaoilte ar fan. 
T&'\'\ torran air bith in mo thimcheall, acht 

na h-eimlaith dul tharm os mo cheann, 
Na filibinidhe ag bualadh na speire le buille 

fad-tharruingthe, fann; 
Agns tagann an f headog mar phileir ag gear- 

radh na h-oidhchele fead, 
Agns cluinim na gaethe nana is airde ,'s is 

gairbbe sgread, 
Acht aon torran eile ni chluinim, is e so a 

mhendas mo bhron, 
Aon torran eile acht sgrioch agns glaodhoch 

na n-enn air an moiti. 



How dark is the night time to-night ! I be- 
hold not a single star; 
And heavy and dark are my heartfelt 

thoughts as they wander sadly afar, 
Not a sound in creation around, but the 

birds passing over my head: 
Those lapwings that ruffled the air with their 

long-drawn strokes as they fled. 
The plover that comes like a bullet cutting 

the sky with its speech; 
And I hear the wild geese above them, with 

their wilder and stronger screech. 
There is no other noise within hearing; oh, 

that is what adds to my woe — 
No other noise but the cry and the call of 

the birds in the meadow below. 



But, afar at the foot of the mountain that 

borders the ocean wide, 
List to the great sea rolling, to the waves as 

they chase on the tide — ■ 
Bushing on to the beach which swallows the 

weeds on its sandy bed. 
Oh, cold as the tide to-night is, I feel colder 

in heart and head; 



I cannot, I cannot explain it; I know not 

the reason why 
I'm so troubled and sorrow-laden: I can only 

sigh and cry. 
How cold and how wild this place is — this 

place where I'm lying apart — 
But that's not the reason that makes me so 

heavy and sad at heart. 



Since the men who were true are departed — 
they who my affection had won — 

Cast out from the land I was raised in; alas ! 
that they're banished and gone — 

Asking for only protection and shelter from 
poverty; now 

In the land in which they were dwelling 
there are only the sheep and the cow. 

The cow and the sheep in the pasture — in 
the pathlands of people, my woe ! 

And in place of the laugh of the children, 
the cries of the raven and crow, 

Every candle and light is extinguished that 
lighted each door and each hearth; 

'Tis the death, the exile of the people in- 
creases my sorrow on earth. 

IV. 

But, see there ! the bright moon is rising 

and tearing asunder the clouds, 
And spreading its light on the meadows so 

mantled with desolate shrouds, 
And beneath it I see the old village, with 

the homes of the people all razed — 
!STo gables, no doorsteads, no children; no 

cows in the baivn where they grazed. 
From the rock upon which I am sitting, how 

woful the look of the glen; 
With no human creature but I, from one 

end to the other therein; 
The sheep and the cows where the men were; 

the lone snipe starts up from its nest, 
And screeches aloud to the heavens, while 

I'm here alone in the mist. 



But like as appeareth the bright moon, 
breaking through darkness with light, 

Scattering the clouds in its way, and scatter- 
ing the shadows of night, 



;s4 



POEMS OF O'DONOVAX 110SSA. 



Chasing the shadows of night, and chasing 
the mist and the fog, 

Casting light upon mountain and hill, upon 
pasture and meadow and bog; 

Oh, like as illumines the moonlight the land 
that is stricken with blight, 

So, shortly, will Freedom illumine the Slav- 
ery that shrouds us to-night, 

Will tear from a nation of people the death- 
pall that mantles the strong, 

And our laughter, once more full and joy- 
ous, will be heard beyond sea before 
long. 

VI. 

But oh, 'tis not speeching, declaiming, or 
talking with all our might, 

Will lift from our land its darkness — will 
scatter the clouds of night; 

Nor the music, nor songs of the poets, nor 
the orators' power in " the hall." 

Nor crying, nor praying, nor moaning, nor 
lying, — the sweetest of all; 

But the work of the hands that are strong, 
and the hearts that are strangers to 
fear, [were found in the rear — 

That never deserted the fight, and that never 



The heroes who stand in the gap, neither 
speaking nor acting the lie; 

The men who're not frightened by threats, 
who are ready to dare and to die. 



But whither, Lord ! run my thoughts 

now? What foolish things come to 

my mind ? 
Whereabout can you see such a people? 

None in mountain or glen can you 

find 
They are exiled — cast out from among us 

and scattered all over the earth, 
No track of their steps on the mountain, or 

their boats on the streams of their 

birth; 
And I all alone by myself here, my ship 

without steer or mainstay, 
Thinking sadly of going forever to cold, 

stranger lands, far away; 
My friends will be dead, very likely, if once 

more I revisit this shore, 
And the language I'm speaking at present, 

I may never again speak it more. 



POEMS OF HENBY BEMAED CARPENTER. 



VIVE VALEQTJE. 

TO DR. ROBERT BWYEK JOYCE. 

[Witkin six weeks Boston lost two distinguished artistic 
workmen. On the 21st of July died Martin Milmore, the 
sculptor of the Soldiers 1 Monument and the Sphinx in Mount 
Auburn. On the 2d of September, sailed for Ireland, in 
shattered health, R. D. Joyce, Poet and Physician, the 
author of " Deirdre " and " Blanid."] 



' of all the sea's daughters, Ierne, 

dear mother isle, 
Take home to thy sweet, still waters thy son 

whom we lend thee awhile. 
Twenty years has he poured out his song, 

epic echoes heard in our street, 
Twenty years have the sick been made strong 

as they heard the sound of his feet. 
For few there be in his lands whom Apollo 

deigns to choose 
On whose heads to lay both hands in medi- 
cine-gift and the muse. 
Double-grieved because double-gifted now 

take him and make strong again 
The heart long- winnowed and sifted on the 

threshing-floor of pain. 
Saving others, he saved not himself, like a 

shipmaster staunch and brave, 
Whose men leave the surge-beaten shelf 

while he sinks alone in the wave. 
The child in the night cries " mother," and 

the mother straight brings peace; 
Ierne, be kind to our brother; speak thou, 

and his plague shall cease. 
Thou gavest him once as revealer song-breath 

and the starry scroll, 
Give him now as the heart's best healer life- 
breath and balms for the soul. 

saddest of all the sad islands, green-girt by 

thy mother the sea, 
Fold warm, and feed with thy silence the 

child whom we send to thee. 



Two children thou gavest our city, to stand 

in the stress and strife 
And touch us to holier pity through shapes 

of the deathless life; 
One caught in the mountain granite, the 

other in marble of song 
Those shadows that fall on our planet from 

the worlds of the Fair and the Strong; 
Of those thy two sons thou gavest, one is, 

but the younger is not; 
For with all men, even the bravest, strength 

wanes when the noons wax hot. 
The wine of his life half tasted, the work of 

his life half done, 
He sank through earth-wounds that wasted,. 

heart-sore and sick of the sun, 
The scabbard fell from the sabre, the soul 

dropped its time-worn vest, 
Then we said, Let this land of his labor be 

always the land of his rest, 
And always the bronze and the stone that 

grew soft to his touch as flame, 
Shaped for others, shall now be his own, new- 
raised and emblazed with his name, 
And the glimmering shaft that catches the. 

sun's last kiss on its head * 
And the Sphinx that overwatches the un- 
murmuring streets of the dead 
Shall call to life's tide where it dashes, and 

speak of him we deplore, 
Till the sun burns down to ashes, and the 

moon cries, I rise no more. 



Who shall cancel that which is sealed ? Who> 
shall close what the Fates have cleft?' 

Two men were at work in one field; one is- 
taken, the other left; 



. Boston Common and the. 



POEMS OP HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER 



He is left in life's mid meadows, nor yet have 

the days begun, 
When the hand from the valley of shadows 

draws down from the light of the 

sun, 
He lives, and looks round with dread, as a 

strengthlcss reaper who grieves, 
When the last low moon rises red on his rich 

half harvested sheaves. 
Hast not thou, Ierne, a blossom that scared 

the snake from thy soil, 
That shall slay the snake in the bosom and 

wither its deadly coil ? 
Yea, thou hast what we fain would inherit, 

though kings in these isles of the blest, 
' Thou hast for the world- worn spirit some 

simples unfound in the West. 
Here the field flows with milk and honey, 

the river with spoil divine, 
Here the clear air is warm with sunny gold 

cups of invisible wine, 
Self-trust and Toil are defiant, and Freedom 

is mightier than these, 
And Wealth spreads his couch, like a giant, 

silk-smooth for the sides of Ease, 
.And gilds man and man with his million, and 

fast as he flies through the heat, 
White cabin and purple pavilion are stirred 

with the storm of his feet. 
But what soil, thou Eden of islands, can 

match thy red and white store, 
The roses of health on thy highlands, the 

lilies of love on thy shore ? 
What land lies emerald T valleyed, inlaid with 

lakelet and lawn, 
Where the spirit is swifter rallied, reclothed 

as with lights of the dawn ? 
Or where comes with starrier splendor the 

touch of a light-breathing fan, 
To scatter the chaff and make tender and 

affluent the spirit of man? 
There a courtier is found in the cot, and a 

prince in the poor man's shed, 
With a soul sorrow-born, love-begot, rocked 

and cradled in thoughts of the dead, 
A soul like a wind-harp that takes all tones 

of laughter and tears, 
Now burns, now in dying delays woos us 

back through its dream of the years. 



There the neediest spreads you the last of hie 

earth-apples* dug from the ground, 
And the salt of his wit turns the fast to a 

feast, where dainties abound, — 
Smile and tear and manna-dropped speech 

freelv shed on the least word he saith, 
And high-soaring thought beyond reach and 

the love of his land to the death. 

Sweetest isle of old white-haired Ocean, ] 
breathe new in this child of thy love 

A spirit whose musical motion is light as the 
wings of a dove, 

While hence from palace and purlieu our 
messenger thoughts on the breeze 

Shall reach him through cry of curlew and 
call of sundering seas, 

Where perchance in the shore-wind's breath- 
ing he looks from some headland 
height, 

His westward-bound thoughts bequeathing 
to the sun ere he sinks in night, 

Or haply mid stones of the olden and peril- 
ous places of fear 

He rears a new song-palace, golden with 
dreams of meadow and mere, 

Mab's realm, the swart Connaught Queen, 
faery bugles blown through the sky, 

Magic shores, which once to have seen is to 
live and never die; 

Where Benbulben, lonely and solemn, looks 
forth toward dark Donegal, 

O'er the endless Atlantic column that foams 
round Sliev League's rock-wall, 

Down whose cliff the Gods drave their share, 
and its face with long furrows 
ploughed, 

When they planted as king of the air, crag- 
throned and ermined with cloud, 

The far-sighted, sun-gazing eagle to scream 
to the deep his decree, 

Low-boomed in organ- tones regal and vassal 
voices of sea. 

saddest of all the sea's daughters, Ierne, 

sweet mother isle, 
Say, how canst thou heal at thy waters the 

son whom we lend thee awhile ? 

* Pommes-de-terre. 



POEMS OF HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. 



7s: 



When the gathering cries implore thee to 

help and to heal thy kind, 
When thy dying are strewn before thee, thy 

living ones crouch behind, 
When about thee thy perishing children 

cling, crying, " Thou only art fair, 
We have seen through Life's maze bewilder- 
ing how the earth-gods never spare: " 
And the wolves blood-ripe with slaughter 

gnar at thee with fangs of steel; 
Thou, Niobe-Land of the water, hast many 

children to heal. 
Yet heal him, Ierne, dear mother, thy days 

with his days shall increase, 
At the song of this Delphic brother, nigh 

half of thy pangs shall cease. 
Nor art thou, sweet friend, in a far land, — 

all places are near on the globe, — 
Our greeting wear for thy garland, our love 

for thy festival robe, 
While we keep through glory and gloom two 

altar-candles for thee, 
Thy "Blanid" of deathless doom and thy 

dead but undying " Deirdre." 
And may He who builds in his patience the 

houses which death reveals, 
Round whom the far constellations are dust 

from his chariot- wheels, 
Who showers his coin without scorning, each 

day as he issues it bright, 
The sun as his gold in the morning, the 

stars as his silver at night, 
The love which feedeth the sparrow and 

watcheth the little leaf, 
Which guide th the death -laden arrow and 

counteth each grain of grief, 
Change thy life-chant from its minor and 

spread thy spirit serene, 
As gold before the refiner whose face is re- 
flected therein. 



FRYEBURG. 



No vale with purer peace the spirit fills 
Than thine, Fryeburg the fair, Fryeburg 

the free. 
Dear are thy men and maidens unto me; 



Holy the smokeless altars of thy hills; 
Sacred thy wide, moist meadows, where 

the morn 
Delays for very love; divinely born 
Those drooping tresses of thy feathery elms, 
That lisp of cool delight through dreams 

of noon; 
Gentle thy Saco's tides, that creep and 
croon, 
Lapsing and lingering through hushed forest- 



Which love the 



-bird's boon. 



But neither vale nor hill nor field nor tree 
Nor stream nor forest had this day been 

ours, 
Nor would sweet English speech in Frye- 
burg's bowers 
This night be heard across her lake and lea, — 
Our seamless flag had been in pieces riven, 
Nor had we been, beneath its blue, starred 
heaven, 
A nation one and indivisible, — 

Had not two spirits come to range and 

reign 
Here over sand-girt Saco's green domain, 
The one with sword, the other with prophet- 
spell, — 
Webster and Chamberlain. 

Two crowns of glory clasp thy calm, chaste 
brow. 
ye strong hills, bear witness to my verse, 
Thou "Maledetto," mountain of the 
curse,* 
Chocorua, blasted by thy chief, and thou, 
Kearsarge, slope-shouldered monarch of 

this vale, 
Who gavest thy conquering name to that 
swift sail 
Which caught in Gallic seas the rebel bark 
And downward drove the Alabama's pride 
To deep sea-sleep in Cherbourg's ravening 
tide, 
What time faint Commerce watched a na- 
tion's ark 
Sinking with 



* Mt. Maledetto, the Chocorua of the Pyrenees, is entirely 
destitute of vegetation, the supposed result of a malediction 
like that pronounced by the Indian chieftain. 



POEMS OF II FN It Y BERNARD CARPENTER 



Speak, ye historian pine-woods, where ye 
stand, 
And thou bald scalp, like the bald crown 

of Time,* 
Lifted above thy sylvan sea sublime, 
And ye still shores, reaches of golden sand, 
Linked like a necklace round your Lovell's 

lake, 
Speak, for ye saw how, when the morning 
brake, 
Brave Chamberlain, and men like Chamber- 
lain, 
Turned like caged lions, where round them 

in fell scorn 
Leaped from their lairs a thousand flushed 
with morn, 
And fought, death-loving, grand in life's 
disdain, 
Till eve's first star was born. 

Then fell the peerless, fearless, cheerless 
chief, 
Paugus, between this water and that wood, 
Staining the yellow strand with Indian 
blood, 
Death-struck by Chamberlain; and straight 
in grief 
The Indian vanished, and the English 

came, 
And laid on this lone mere their Lovell's 
name, 
Lovell who led them: thus the northern land 
From Kearsarge to Katahdin, and the 

State 
Named from the Pine, lay open as a gate 
For Saxon steps to reach St. Lawrence 



Clear of wild war's debate. 

A century, half a hundred years, and seven, 
Each.like a pilgrim from eternity 
"With sandals of soft silence creeping by, 
Have paced thy streets, and hied them home 
to heaven, 
Sweet Fryeburg, since thy Lovell's battle- 
day 
Wove the pine-wreath which welcomes no 
decay; 



* Equestrian fancy calls the scalp-like rock over-hanging 



But grandsire Time, who crowns men with 
both hands, 
Giving to him that hath, decreed that 

thou, 
Ere fourscore years, shouldst bind about 
thy brow 
A second wreath, culled from thy meadow- 
lands 
And the elm's peaceful bough. 

Then Judgment rose on swift, storm- 
shadowed wings,* 
And pitying Man, heart-sick with vain 

desire, 
Sent the new Gods, mist-robed and 

crowned with fire, 
To trace with flame-like hands the doom of 

kings. 
Through the worn world like throb of 

morning drum, 
Pealed the fierce shout, — the new Gods' 

reign is come; 
And new-risen stars, ablaze around Man's 

new bride, 
Came down to sing at Freedom's marriage 

feast, 
When through the listening lands of West 

and East 
A Daniel rose for judgment on each side 
Where the Atlantic ceased. 

Twenty rich summers glowed along his veins 
When from New Hampshire's high-born 

hills a youth 
Came down, a seeker and a sayer of sooth, 
To stand beneath these elms, and shake the 
reins 
That steer the heart of boyhood's fiery 

prime. 
They called him Daniel Webster and the 
chime 
Measured the sliding hours with smooth, slow 
stroke, 

* A Daniel come to judgment, yea, a Daniel." Two young 
champions of popular freedom, each bearing this name, 
arose almost in the samehour on either side of the Atlantic. 
In 1800, while the bells of St. Patrick's Cathedral were ring- 
ing triumphantly over the downfall of the old Irish Parlia- 
ment, young Daniel O'Connell rose in the Corn Exchange, 
Dublin, and delivered his maiden speech. In 1802 young 
Daniel Webster spoke for the first time, and in the spirit of 
the Irish agitator's life-long political principles. 



POEMS OF HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. 



While he sat registering the deed, and 

wrought 
As though the wide world watched him: 

swift in thought, 
But slow in speech; yet once, when once he 

spoke, 
Then an archangel taught. 

'Twas Magna Charta's morning in July, 
When, in that temple reared of old to 

Truth, 
He rose, in the bronze bloom of blood- 
bright youth, 
To speak, what he re -spake when death was 
nigh.* 
Strongly he stood, Olympian-framed, with 

front 
Like some carved crag where sleeps the 
lightning's brunt, 
Black, thunderous brows, and thunderous 



Like Pericles, of whom the people said, 
That, when he spake, it thundered; round 

him spread 
The calm of summer nights when the stars 

teach 
In music overhead. 

Lift up thy head, behold thy citizen, 

Fryeburg ! From thy cloistered shades 

came he, — 
Who came like many more who come from 
thee, — 
To teach the cities how the hills make men. 
Guard thy unabdicated pastoral throne, 
God-kept within thy God-made mountain- 
zone, 
Of Truth, of Love, of Peace, the worshipper; 
Keep fresh thy double garland, and hand 

down 
This my last leaf woven in thy Webster's 
crown, 
And leave lean Envy's loathed, unkennelled 
cur 
To bark at his renown. 



* Webster, in his last speech in the Senate, repeated the 
peroration of his Fryeburg oration; an example of the law 
under which many other supreme artists have been led to 
work over and enlarge the lines of their life's first efforts. 



A VACATION PRELUDE. 

"AAaoe /avarat. 

At Athens, on the second day of the Eleusinian festival, 
the candidates for the Great Mysteries assembled, and wait- 
ed for the well-known word of the prophet, Hierophant or 
Mystagogue, as their religious leader was variously called. 
At the cry, " To the sea, ye initiates I 1 ' (halade uuistai), they 
rose and went down to the shore, where they received bap- 
tismal purification, and thence proceeded to the temple of 
Demeter (the Earth-mother) at Eleusis, to be initiated in the 
greater or final Mysteries of life and death. 

" Hence to the sea ! souls true and tried, 
Plunge in the Gods' baptismal tide ! 
Thence to Demeter's temple-stair 
And learn Life's deeper secrets there ! " 



The Prophet speaks; they hear the call, 
They rise and leave thy sacred wall, 
Thy homes and haunts of sweet renown I 
Queen City of the Violet Crown ! ' 

Onward with heart-kept vows they creep 
Round the grey, olive-shaded steep, 
Through ways that beckon lovingly 
Down to old iEgeus' fabled sea; 

That sea that shines and shakes afar, 
Inlaid with many an island- star, 
Poseidon's bright, rock-jewelled band 
Clasping his loved, lost Attic land. 

" Hence to the sea I" that cry once more 
Comes, organ-voiced, from surf and shore, 
Comes through the hum and hurrying feet, 
The toil and tumult of the street. 

From each dull brick I learn the call 
Flashed as from old Belshazzar's wall; 
Market and church and street and store 
Echo the mandate, " To the shore ! " 

With Care's sharp thorn-wreath daily 

crowned, 
Our wave-girt city hears the sound, 
And stoops her toil-worn diadem 
To touch the healing Ocean's hem; 

And take new strength from him who erst 
With his waves rocked her, swathed and 

nursed, 
Who now with blue, large, wondering eye 
Hails her, his Venice throned on high. 



POEMS OF HEXRY BERXARD CARPEXTER. 



to the sea ! " the summ.ons came 
O'er fields adust, down skies of flame; 
I heard, and fondly turned to thee, 

gentle, glad, all-gathering Sea ! 

1 saw thee spread but yestermorn, 
As though for Venus newly born, 
A couch of satin soft and blue, 

O'er which the sun-showers dimpling flew. 

To-day how changed ! the loud winds rise, 
The storm her sounding shuttle plies, 
Weaves a white water-shroud beneath, 
And all the sea- marge answers, " Death." 

Through sheeted spray what sights appear ! 
Faces look out and shapes of fear; 
Mad through the trampled surge abroad 
Revels and reels the Demon-god ; 

Whilst o'er his shouts that wax and wane 
Swells one long monotone of pain, 
As o'er some city's rabble yell 
Tolleth a great cathedral bell. 

Is this the deep-sea peace I sought ? 
Calm days by holy shores of Thought, 
Airs, that might Hope's own clarion fill. 
With tones divine of " Peace, be still?" 

And yet to me these tides that flow 
Are but as clouds o'er worlds below, 
Worlds which look up to skies, as we 
Look to our heaven's o'erhanging sea. 

Not on that sea-floor, but beneath 
Its snowy shroud and funeral wreath 
Peace dwells. What kingdoms calm and fair 
And changeless greet my guesses there ! 

Seeds of the New that is to be 

Sleep in the ooze of yon grey sea; 

Life, Love, all sweet and speechless things 

To crown the heart's imaginings, — 

Rich hills, green-skirted, forest-zoned, 
Cliffs on which slumbrous Powers are 

throned, 
High-pillared shades, with splendor laned, 
By ruthless woodman unprofaned; 

Close-latticed lights, cool shadowings, 
And murmurs of all pleasant things, 



Fountains that chime away their cares* 
In liquid lapse down crystal stairs; 

Glades which a tender twilight fling 
Like the green mist of groves in spring; 
Blameless white sands, and seas of pearl, 
Where young-eyed Dreams their sails unfurl; 

Doors opening from afar with tone 

Of mystic flutes in musings lone, 

Low chantings thrilled through dim-lit seas, 

Old harp-notes, half-heard prophecies; 

Pale temples veiled in sapphire gloom 
Where the great ghosts of glorious doom 
In transport list, till heaven-born Fate 
Shall ope her sire's tremendous gate; 

Caves where the gentle, gracious Hours, 
Who bring all good things, weave strange 



And faint Hopes wait in Lethe grots, 
Brow-bound with fresh forget-me-nots; 

Genii, low dwellers of the glen, 
And souls forlorn that shall be men, 
Mute lips that once have kissed the wrong, 
Which Time shall purge and light with song; 

Strong angels, waiting for the day 
When they shall shoulder seas away 
And show to God new blessed hills ' 
Starred with undying daffodils; 

When Earth, with bridal morning strewn, 
Like a pure goddess grandly hewn, 
Shall, re-baptized and born again, 
Rise from her centuries' trance of pain. 

Thus in thy heart, Deep, are stored 
Kings' treasure- chambers, unexplored; 
Thy terrors, tumults, fears are found 
But on thy surface, in thy sound. 

" Hence to the sea ! " I heard that call, 
And left the world's loud palace-wall 
To find thee, thou vast Unknown, 
By shores of mystery and of moan. 

Yet, nameless Dread, that seem'st but so, 
Calm are thy depths of peace below; 
Roll dark or bright, O Spirit Sea, 
Why should I fear to sink in thee ? 



POEMS OF HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. 



791 



THE REED. 

ET ARUNDINEM IN DKXTBAM EJUS. 

Beneath the memnonian shadows of Mem- 
phis it rose from the slime, 

A reed of the river, self-hid, as though shun- 
ning the curse of its crime, 

And it shook as it measured in whispers the 
lapses of tide and of time, 

It shuddered, it stooped, and was dumb, 
when the kings of the earth passed 
along, 

For what could this reed of the river in the 
race of the swift and the strong, — 

Where the wolf met the bear and the pan- 
ther, blood-bathed, at the banquets 
of wrong? 

These loved the bright brass, the hard steel, 

and the gods that kill and condemn; 
Yea, theirs was the robe silver-tissued, and 

theirs was the sun-colored gem; 
If they touched thee, reed, 'twas to wing 

with swift death thy sharp arrowy 

stem. 

Then the strong took the corn and the wine, 
and the poor, who had scattered the 
seed, 

Went forth to the wilderness weeping, and 
sought out a sign in their need, 

And the gods laughed in rapturous thun- 
der, and showed them the wind- 
shaken reed. 

dower of the poor and the helpless ! key 

to Thought's palace unpriced ! 
When the strong mocked with cruel crimson, 

and spat in the face of their Christ, 
When the thorns were his crown — in his 

faint palm this reed for a sceptre 

sufficed; 

This reed in whose fire-pith Prometheus 
brought life, and then Art began, 

When Man, the god of time's twilight, grew 
godlike by dying for Man, 

Ere Redemption fell bound and bleeding, 
priest-carved to the priests' poor plan. 



Come hither, ye kings of the earth, and ye- 
priests without pity, draw near, 

Ye girded your loins for a curse, and ye 
builded dark temples to Fear, 

Ye gathered from rune-scroll and symbol 
great syllables deathful and drear. 

Then ye summoned mankind to your Idol, 
the many bowed down to the few, 

As ye told in loud anthems how all things 
were framed for the saints and for you, 

" Lord, not on these sun-blistered rocks, but 
on Gideon's fleece falls thy dew." 

Man was taken from prison to judgment; a 
bulrush he bent at your nod; 

Ye stripped him of rights, his last garment,, 
and bared his broad back for the rod,. 

And ye lisped, as he writhed down in an- 
guish, " This woe is the sweet will of 
God." 

But lo ! whilst ye braided the thorn- wreath 

for Man and the children of men, 
Whilst ye reft him of worship and wealth, 

and he stood mute and dazed in your 

den, 
A reed-stalk remained for a sceptre; ye left 

in his hand the pen. 

Sweet wooer, strong winner of kingship, 
above crown, crosier and sword, 

By thee shall the mighty be broken, and the 
spoil which their might hath stored 

Shall be stamped small as dust and be wafted 
away by the breath of the Lord. 

His decree is gone forth, it is planted, and 
these are the words which he spake, — 

No smouldering flax of first fancy, no full 
flame of thought, will he slake, , 

No bruised reed of the writer shall the 
strength of eternities break. 

Behold your sign and your sceptre. Arise,. 

imperial reed, 
Go forth to discrown king and captain and 

disinherit the creed; 
strike through the iron war-tower ar 

cast out the murderer's seed; 



79'.' 



POEMS OF HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. 



Go forth — like the swell of the springtide, 
sweep on in measureless sway. 

Till raised over each throned falsehood, in 
bright omnipresence like day. 

Thou shalt bruise them with rod of iron and 
break them like vessels of clay. 



THEODOSIUS. 



All things are beautiful that God hath 
made, — 

Green earth, skies grey or crimson, sheen 
or shade, 

The golden river-dust, the mid-sea slime, 

The mold-warp's home, and hills the throne 
of Time, 

Rich dawn, with thrush, and saffron-flower- 
ing reed, 

And darkness, friend of death, and worm 
and weed. 

Shadows of silence, and great lights of sound 

Alike are dear to the heaven they float 
around, 

And God hath blest them, whether in field 
or flood, 

In earth or air, and called them very good. 

But ere these leave the embrace of their 
kind Nurse, 

Man clothes them with the garment of his 
curse, 

And driving out with flame-sword, seraph- 
wise, 

He disinherits them of their Paradise. 

J Tis the old story of the scapegoat still, 

We lay on other lives our self -wrought ill; 

Man points at Woman, Woman at her feet, 

" The Serpent tempted me, and I did eat." 

In the far East, as story telleth us, 
Dwelt the great Emperor Theodosius, 
By the rough Thracian strait, where Io 

roamed 
Salt fields of sea, wind-fretted and o'er- 

foamed. 
All power was his, the King's twain-handed 

might, 



And Life, and Law, and all, save sacred 

sight. 
But, God be praised, the chance that seals 

one sense, 
Stays not the whole flow of man's providence. 
So at his palace door a bell he hung, 
Which, when it woke him with its iron 

tongue, 
Cried ever in his ear, " Sire, descend, 
And give me justice, and be misery's friend." 
Then would you hear the shuffling, sightless 

feet 
Which brought him to the hall and judg- 
ment seat, 
Where he sat down, this Emperor Theodose, 
And sentence gave 'mid his magnificoes. 
So the world sought him as some isle o' the 

sea, 
Where men breathe rights and all the men 

are free. 

Now fell it on a day when Spring's new 
flame 

Pricked bird and flower and leaf, a serpent 
came 

And built her home and stowed her innocent 
freight 

In a green plat, hard by the palace-gate, 

And there she dwelt, a helpless, harmless 
thing, 

With sweet, strange mother-love encompass- 
ing 

And coiled in sleep about her little ones, 

As God's vast life rings round his stars and 
suns. 

One morn, while absent from her dear 
abode, 

There came with short, light leaps, a song- 
less toad 

Through thickening grass-plumes, to the 
serpent nest, 

Where her brood lay just sleep-warm from 
her breast, 

And swallowing these, his body burdensome 

He straight laytlown in that unchilded home. 

Swift came the serpent- mother back again; 

One glance around, then fierce with death- 
like pain, 



POEMS OP HENEY BERNARD CARPENTER. 



793 



She flashed straight at the murderer of her 

God-armed with right to cast out and destro3 r , 
Not yet: for oft the gods are kind to guilt, 
And fools grow fat where the pure blood lies 
spilt. 

Driven out, this creature, childless, exiled, 
poor, 

Slow wound her weak folds to the emperor's 
door, 

Where, gathering all her battle-broken 
strength 

She flickered up and writhed her sliding 
length 

Round the smooth bell-rope toward the 
speechless bell, 

Which, drawing down, she woke the sum- 
moning knell, 

"Descend and give me justice." Straight 
uprose 

And took his seat, that Emperor Theodose, 

Saying, "Go, bring him hither," and one 
came, 

In black velure and taffeta robe of flame, 

Peeping with outstretched neck and watery 
laugh, 

Who smote the snake thrice with his ivory 
staff, 

And switched her from the grunsel, and re- 
turned. 

Scarce had the sightless Theodosius learned 

Prom the cold courtier's tongue the serpent's 
crime, 

When hark ! the bell knolled out the second 
time, 

" Descend and give me justice," and to end 

The full appeal, it rahg once more, " De- 
scend." 

Then called the blind king to his seneschal, 
A reverent man, of face angelical, 
With love-lit eyes, voice musical and low, 
White hair and soft step like the falling 

snow; 
" Hie thee, and fetch this thing whatso it 

be; 
Who doeth kind deed, the only king is he." 
And with soft step the senior went, and found 



The stricken serpent half-way to the ground. 
And caught her well-nigh dead, reft of all 

hope, 
Failing through faintness from the throbbing 

rope, 
And bore her, inly pitying her woes, 
And laid her down before King Theodose. 

then, I ween, a work right marvellous 
Was wrought of him, who somewhere teach- 

eth us, — 
Certes, all things are possible with God. 
Yet men will say in time's last period 
This was not so, these tales are light as sand, 
Faith-forged in Jewry or old Grecian Land, 
Not knowing how in antique days, by oak 
And fountain, beasts and birds together 

spoke, 
Under the forest's shadow- woven tent, 
In session sage and peaceful parliament; 
Till Man came a ad henceforth from bird 

and beast 
The primal word's divisible language ceased, 
And so to place their thoughts above our 

reach 
They chose their free-born, inarticulate 



Yet sometimes these, when heavenward 

raised by wrong, 
Change cry for speech, as men change speech 

for song; 
Or, as when Slavery's bow at Man is bent, 
Man cries to God, and then is eloquent, 
Nor count it strange that He who once came 

down 
In tongue of fire to be the Prophet's crown, 
And shook his soul as with the rushing 

South, 
Should ope in one brief speech a serpent's 

mouth. 

So with raised head the serpent thus began 
"Smite me, but hear. I come to thee, 

Man; 
For unto thee, they say, the seat is given 
Of Mediator- God 'twixt us and heaven. 
In thy sere autumn, when hopes fade and 

fly, 

Thou yearnest upward to the listening sky 



ro4 



POEMS OF HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. 



And criest and sighest and sayest, ' Lord, 

how long ? ' 
To some one, whom ye call the Sweet and 

Strong — 
What that one is to thee, art thou to us, 
Girt with great strength and knowledge 

glorious. 
Shall Mercy drop to thee her royal meat 
Who keepst her crumbs from them that kiss 

thy feet. 
Think not, great king, that we who roam 

and range 
Wild ways of life, which teach us uses 



Are aliens to what makes the best in men, 
In soldier, statesman, sire and citizen, — 
The lover's anguish dipped in tides of death, 
Child-trust, and mother-love that fashioneth 
All thought and thew, life's prodigality 
That breathes the noble rage to save or die; — 
These which are ours we share with thee, 

Man, v 
In Life's wide palace cosmopolitan. 
Hear me. There came a toad into my nest, 
Whiles I was absent on a needful quest, 
And killed my pretty brood, and now he 

keeps 
That home from her who at thy footstool 

creeps. 
Full well I know that something just and 

good 
Ere many suns will give me back my brood, 
But give me now the lair which is my own, — 
Guard my ground nest, and I will guard thy 

throne." 

Long mused the blind king Theodosius, 
But when at last his heart full piteous 
Sent its red message to his cheek, he spake: — 
"Ah me ! sad woes ye bear for human sake, 
Poor hunted lives, beast, bird and creeping 

thing, 
From Man who is your brother, not your 

king. 
But chiefly on thy head that lies thus low 
Have we laid down the weight of all our woe. 
Give ear and hear me, my most honored lords, 
And you, ye learned clerks, wise in your 

words, 



Stand forth and answer me: Who first de- 
creed 
Discord for all things sown of mortal seed ? 
Who blew through earth the ban of civil war 
Which flames above us, reddening Ares' star ? 
God, will ye say ? Heaven wot, that cannot 

be. 
Hear Nature's Miserere Domine : 
Go up, man-scorned, an awful litany 
Folding the feet of God with folds of moan 
And crying, Our eyes look unto Thee alone. 
Not God. Who then ? Ye durst not answer 

me — 
'Tis Man, who blots her fountain, slays her 

tree, 
Blasts her sweet river, tears her breast of 

green, 
And calls her beasts now clean and now un- 
clean, 
Stooping her names of serpent, ape and dog 
To suit the sins of man's own catalogue; 
For through man's heart distil those drops of 

gall 
Which must o'erflow and on some creature 

fall. 
dull of spirit and cold of heart to make 
This cleanser of the dust, the earth-loving 

snake, 
The authoress of your ills, the fount of sin; 
Forgetting in your doctrines' battle-din 
How God ordained that since the world began 
Each thing in turn should be the friend of 

Man. 
What ! shall the Lamb that healeth all of us 
Tread on the Snake of iEsculapius ? 
Say, are not innocent Wisdom and wise Love 
Wedded for aye — the Serpent and the Dove ? 
sweet Lord Christ, when thou didst come 

on earth 
Thou madest the stall of ox thy bed of birth ; 
When in chill desert thou didst leave our 
feasts [beasts;' 

To share Life's hunger, thou wast ' with the 
When on to Zion Town they saw thee pass, 
'Twas not on war-steed, but on lowly ass; 
And when to win us worlds by thy self- loss 
Thou didst lift up for us the bitter cross, 
Then didst thou take the thorns we oft had 



POEMS OF HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. 



;;>.> 



To, be thy crown, of all great crowns the first. 
Help me, dear Christ, in pity thus arrayed 
Like thee, to love all things which God hath 

made, 
So Pain shall school me into sympathy, 
And what I should have been, I yet shall be. " 

Then Theodose sent one from all the rest 
To reinstall the serpent in her nest, 
Who came and finding there the murderer 
Crushed him and cast him out; and some 

aver 
That from the bruised head of the loathly 

thing 
There oozed a sea-green gem, forth issuing; 
Wherefore and how it boots not here to tell, — 

with God all things are possible. 



After these things it fell on a bright day 
Near the calm shut of eve, this blind king 

lay* 

Wrapped in his purple, gold-embroidered 

pall, 
And slept a space in the same palace hall, 
When lo ! a thing most rare was brought to 

As though new-raised in beauty from the 

grass 
That serpent through the palace came again, 
No more updrawing her loose length with 

pain, 
But glittering like a stream with rains fresh- 
dewed, 
Amber, and silver-mooned, and rainbow- 

hued, 
Eyed like a moist large planet of the South 
That shines a promise of rain in days of 

drouth. 
So swept she glorying up the porphyry floor, 
And in her mouth a bright great emerald 

bore. 
Therewith, (but whence it came none ever 

knew,) 
Through all the house a wondrous music 

grew, 
Such concords as are heard from stop and 

string 
At heavenly doors by spirits first entering, — 
Immortal airs, touches of mellow sound 



That came in long-drawn sighs, above, 

around, 
And march-like music swoln to mighty tone, 
Like preludes from aerial clarions blown, 
And whispers as of multitudinous feet, 
Which . died away with waifs of scent most 

sweet. 

Soul-charmed, the serpent toward King 
Theodose crept, 
And there she hung above him, as he slept 
With silent face, and silent, pale, dead eyes 
Turned in, as 'twere, on Life's mute mys- 
teries; 
Then, as the downward-swaying branch lets 

fall 
Its waxen fruitage to the lips that call, 
So she soft-stooping o'er his sleep, un- 
known, — 
Dropped on his eyes the magic emerald stone. 

Meanwhile blind Theodosius dreamed a 

dream. 
In the high heaven he saw a coming gleam, 
Which brightening as hf came to where he 

lay, 
Opened at last like the full flower of day. 
It was God's angel, strong Ithuriel, 
Armed with that glowing lance, which, sooth 

to tell, 
Unlocks all doors of light in earth or skies, 
With whose bright point he touched the 

sightless eyes, 
And said, " Receive thy sight;" thus much 

he spoke 
And vanished, and King Theodose awoke. 

Opening his new-born eyes he looked 

abroad, 
Oh wonder ! Oh the beautiful earth of God I 
He gazed on the rich picture, fresh and fair, 
The grateful lields of green, and liquid air, 
But first toward heaven; and its blue gulfs 

of sky. [of light 

What sees he there ? Up through long lanes 
Thy city, Lord, rose on his tranced sight, 
Pillar and palace built of mist and gem, 
And sun-clad wall of New Jerusalem, 
Where men walk free from sin and terror 



r% 



POEMS OF HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. 



With smile sent back on time and passed 

years. 
Then, as the pageant faded from his eyes, 
He watched beneath its vanishing traceries 
The dawning eventide of one faint star 
And lilac cloud's flame- bordered bank and 

bar, 
And lower down, the green wood's tender 

gloom 
And lawns that fed on dews and balm and 

bloom, 
Whilst, like a meteor, through his palace 

door 
The serpent shivered and was seen no more. 



BEYOND THE SNOW. 

Bare boughs; athwart each suppliant arm 

The sun's pale stare at pale November, 
No autumn's amorous breath to warm 
His red last leaf's expiring ember; 

House after house, a glimmering street; 

A herald grain of coming sleet; 

The struggling dayfires' lessening glow; 

Hour when light ghost- winds wailing go, 
When men least hope and most remember, 

Before the snow, before the- snow. 

A village cot; eyes fiery blue, 

Blithe voice beneath the roof's high rafter, 
Ripe cheek, crisp curls of chestnut hue, 
Quick heart that leaps to love and laughter 
That feeds on all from star to sod, 
And loving all things lives in God; 
Light feet borne daily to and fro 
On sweet errand none may know, 
Swift sped with hopes like wings to waft 
her 
Along the snow, along the snow. 



A midnight room; the 

Of those that watch with tear-stained faces; 
The helpless love-look bent by each 

Who stoops, but speaks not, and embraces; 
Love braving Death with that last cry, 
" She is mine, she is mine, she shall not 
die;" 



Then homeward steps returning slow 
To tin' great tear's unworded woe, 
And many darkened dwelling-places 
Across the snow, across the snow. 

A hollow grave; and gathered there 

Strong breaking hearts that bear and break 
not, 
Round the closed eyes and lifeless hair 
Life's few that follow and forsake not; 
Tears, the drink-offering to the dead, 
The bruised heart's grape-wine softly 

shed; 

Long downward looks; they will not go, 

They fain would sleep with her below 

In dreamless rest with those that wake not 

Beneath the snow, beneath the snow. 

A green plot sweet with shade and sound, 

A white porch and a name engraven, 
Where Death unveiled as Love sits crowned 
In garden-lawns with lilies paven, 
And she a daughter of that land, 
A silent rose in her right hand, 
And in her left a scroll where glow 
Mysteries of might which man shall 
know 
In Love's warm-shadowed leafy haven 
the snow, beyond the snow. 



THE SIRENS. 



ON DE BEAUMONT'S PICTURE " LES SIRENES." 

Dainty sea-maids ! bright-eyed sirens ! 
laughing over dead men's graves ! 

What has drawn you from the inland to this 
wilderness of waves ? 

Why those lucent arms uptossing o'er your 
shoulders round and rare ? 

Why those musical throats bent back beneath 
the sunlight of your hair 'i 

Oh, the bosoms' rosy treasures tempting to- 
ward their fragrant home ! 

Oh, the ivory thighs unkirtled on the white 
. flowers of the foam ! 

Bitter is the sea about you with the brine 
of daily tears, 



POEMS OF HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. 



7'JT 



In the sea-grave lie beneath yon withered 
hearts and wasted years. 

Back ! ye deathward-singing Sirens ! One 
by Galilee's calm sea 

Calls you hence, — " cease your angling, 
drop your nets, and follow me," — 

Calls you home to Love-'s high service in se- 
clusion's holy glen, 

But he never called you shoreward to be 
fishers after men. 



SONNET. 

JAMES ABRAM GARFIELD, SEPTEMBER 19TH, 1881. 

Lo ! as a pure white statue wrought with 
care 
By some strong hand that moulds with 

tear and sigh 
Beauty more beautiful than things that 
die, 
And straight 'tis veiled; and whilst all men 

repair 
To see this wonder in the workshop, there ! 
Behold, it gleams unveiled to curious eye, 
Far-seen, high -placed in Art's pale gallery, 
Where all stand mute before a work so fair; 
So he, our man of men, in vision stands, 
With Pain and Patience crowned imperial; 
Death's veil has dropped; far from this 
house of woe 
He hears one love-chant out of many lands, 
Whilst from his mystic noon-height he lets 

fall 
His shadow o'er these hearts that bleed 
below. 



A NEW ENGLAND WINTER SONG. 

FOREFATHERS' DAY, DECEMBER 22. 

Who cradled thee on the rock, my boy, 

Far, far from the sun- warm South ? 
Who woke thee with shout and shock, my 
boy, 



And spray for a kiss on thy mouth, 
As the low sad shores grew dim with rain 
And the grey sea moaned its infinite pain 
To grey grass and pale sands, thy sole do- 
main? 

Who cradled thee on the rock ? 

I brought thee into the wilderness, 

When thou didst cry to me, 
And I gave thee there in thy sore distress 

The rock and the cloud and the sea; 
With baptismal waves thy limbs were wet, 
And the ragged cloud was thy coverlet, — 
Thus saith the Lord God : Dost thou forget ? 

I cradled thee on the rock. 

Who shadowed thee with the cloud, my boy, 
And the stars forgat to shine, [b°y> 

And the sun lay as dead in his shroud, my 
And thy tears were to thee for wine ? 

Who took from thee every pleasant thing, 

Sweet sounds that are drawn from stop and 
string, 

Day's dream and the night's glad banqueting? 
Who shadowed thee with the cloud ? 

I broke thy slumber with clarion storms, 

I called like a midnight bell, 
Till thou saw'st through the dark the spirit 
forms, 

Heaven's glow and the glare of hell; 
And then, that thou mightest know God's 

grace 
And drink his love-wine and see his face, 
I drew thee into my secret place, — 

I shadowed thee with the cloud. 

Who fenced thee round with the sea, my boy, 

And locked its gates amain ? 
Who, to set thy fathers free, my boy, 

Burst the bars of the deep in twain, 
And led them by ways they knew not of, 
When the black storm spread its wings above 
And thundered, My God is Law, not Love ! 

Who fenced thee round with the sea ? 

I set thee beyond where the great sea ran, 

I made thee to dwell apart, 
For in the divisions of man from man 

Come the mighty searchings of heart; 



POEMS OF HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. 



T, the Lord, who moved on the waters old, 


To see his realm re-born 


Who sought for a heart like the sea's heart, 


AVhich late the old worlds could scorn 


—bold, 


Now nearer to life's flowering marge of 


Unchartered, chainless and myriad-souled — 


morn; 


I fenced thee round with the sea. 


To see his country's chief and chosen 




thereof 




In war and peace its eagle and its dove, 




Called here to reap the far fruits of past pain 




And bear New England's blessing to New 


ODE TO GENERAL PORFIRIO DIAZ.* 


Spain 




With the strong Northman's love. 


EX-PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF 




MEXICO. 


ill. 


I. 


The Pine-tree waves her peace-pledge to the 


Open thy storm-dark doors, dear Northern 


Palm, 


Land, 


Sending sweet grace and greeting, not as 


Star-diademed, pale Priestess of the free, 


they 


| Wailed round by wind and water and that 


Who greet and give not. For in time's 


grey sea 


past day, 


Whose morning psalm salutes his Pilgrims' 


Ere thy quick South roused from their 


strand, 


summer-calm 


thou to whom all great things thought 


Her baby Hopes adream on wings warm- 


and done 


furled, 


Are dear, all fights for Freedom lost or 


Our seedplot for all gardens of the world 


won, 


Nursed through its bud and birth 


Queen of the earth's free states, 


One tree till the whole earth 


Open to him thy gates, 


Owned its circumferent leaves and giant 


This champion of the children of the Sun; 


girth; 


To him who with his king-destroying rod 


Whence winnowed by the northwind's 


Wiped the last king-curse from the 


wings of power 


southern sod, 


A fire-seed smote thy soil, and lo ! a 


Bring the loud welcome which the free- 


bower, 


man brings 


A blossom- blaze, a May time glorious. 


When his full harp is struck through 


gardener, what is this thou bringest us ? 


all its strings 


Our freedom's far-sown flower. 


With music born of God. 


IT. 


ii. 


Tree of Liberty, thou Tree of Life, 


He comes a hero to a heroes' home. 


Without thee what were all the golden 


New England's lulls, peal forth your thrice 


South? [mouth, 


All Hail, 


The Cid's rich song from ripe Castilian 


Far as the Gulf, till every seaward sail 


The eyes' black velvet of each gay girl-wife, 


Bends low to hear, and Orizaba's dome 


The scarlet nopal, jasmine's earth-born 


Heaves his flame-hearted breast of barren 


star, 


brown 


The low bird-language of the light guitar 


And breaks the frosts that bind his helmet- 


Wooed by love's wandering hand, 


crown, 


And teocalli grand 




With scroll and sculptured face of mild 
command, 


* Read at the banquet in Boston, April 11th, 1883. 



POEMS OF HENRY BERNARD CARPENTER. 



Queretaro's wave-worn arches, one long 

mile 
Of marching giants, Viga's floating isle, 
Cholula's hill-shrine of the all-worshipped 

Sun, 
Huge cypress shade, all Aztec spoils in one. 
Without thee were most vile. 



Look whither Nature leads thee, soldier- 
priest; 
Not South to soil war-scourged and 

thunder-scarred, 
Not "West where friendship fails thee 
ocean-barred, 
Not to the palsied, mad, monarchic East, 
Dazzling with sunlike gems of gay romance 
And backward gaze fixed in tradition's 

trance, 
Who sent across the main 
The monkish spawn of Spain, 
And Austria's yellow plague and black Ba- 
zaine, 
To lash thy land with battle's gory shower 
And cage thee in Puebla's dungeon-tower, 
Whence rushed thy eagle spirit new-fledged, 
and burst [cursed, 

The death-folds of the serpent crowned and 
When hell lost half her power. 



The strongest Gods dwell ever in the North, 

In labor's land and sorrow's; but at length 

Labor and sorrow bring the perfect 

strength. 

See, from Ezekiel's northern hills leaps forth 

The car of crystal floor and sapphire 

throne, 
In amber-colored light and rainbow zone, 
On self-moved beryl wheels. 
Through fire-mist that reveals 
Man, its great charioteer, aloft, alone, 
Where round him float three mystic 

shapes divine, 
Cloven foot of steer and starred wing 
aquiline, 
And lion's regal mane ready to rise 
Like slumbering Law on all its enemies, 
In strength, guest, like thine. 



So to thy home sweeps down unconquerable 
Our iron chariot of the prophet's dream, 
Fire-fledged and clothed in cloud and 
wreathed with steam, 
Flashed like a poet's thought through all — 
cleft hill, 
Rent rock and rolling flood and fiery 

sand, 
Laden with Life's humanities, not the 

brand 
Of widow-making war, 
To blast thy fields afar 
Like burnings of the intolerable star. 
So flies the thunder-bearing steed of 

flame 
Waking each southern silence with his 
name* 
King of his kinsmen round the stormy 

cape, 
Whose heart, head, hand to purpose, plan 

and shape, 
Win him a conqueror's flame. 



Thee, latest-born, self-liberated State, 
Earth, heaven and thy two Oceans wait to 

bless, 
Our blessing also take, with love not less, 
As of thy sister ever inseparate, 

And take thy place iu the immemorial 

line 
Of those that soared and sang with hopes 
like thine, 
And with voice piercing strong 
And' clear and sweet prolong 
The choral thunders of their mighty song, 
Till earth's new man, thrilled by the 

spirit breeze, 
Shall wake to morn's memnonian melo- 
dies, 
Bright as when daybreak from his rosy 

home 
Stains with his blood-red life the furrowed 
foam 
Of sunward-surging seas. 



POEMS OF FRANCES BROWNE. 



LOSSES. 

Upon' the white sea-sand 

There sat a pilgrim hand, 
Telling the losses that their lives had known; 

While evening waned away 

From breezy cliff and hay, 
And the strong tides went out with weary 
moan. 

One spake, with quivering lip, 

Of a fair freighted ship, 
With all his household to the deep gone 
down; 

But one had wilder woe — 

For a fair face, long ago, 
Lost in the darker depths of a great town. 

There were who mourn'd their youth 

With a most loving ruth, 
For its brave hopes and memories ever green; 

And one upon the west 

Turn'd an eye that would not rest, 
For far-off hills whereon its joys had been. 

Some talk'd of vanish'd gold, 

Some of proud honors told, 
Some speak of friends that were their trust 
no more ; 

And one of a green grave, 

Beside a foreign wave, 
That made him sit so lonely on the shore. 

But when their tales were done, 

There spake among them one, 
A stranger, seeming from all sorrow free; 

" Sad losses have ye met, 

But mine is heavier yet ; 
For a believing heart hath gone from me." 

"Alas!" these pilgrims said, 
"For the living and the dead — 



For fortune's cruelty, for love's sure cross, 
For the wrecks of land and sea! 
But, however it came to thee. 

Thine, stranger, is life's last and heaviest 



SONGS OF OUR LAND. 

Songs of our land, ye are with us for ever, 
The power and the splendor of th.-ones 
pass away; 
But yours is the might of some far flowing 
river. 
Through Summer's bright roses or Au- 
tumn's decay. 
Ye treasure each voice of the swift passing 
ages, 
And truth which time writeth on leaves 
or on sand ; 
Ye bring us the thoughts of poels and sages, 
And keep them among us, old songs of 
our land. 

The bards may go down to the place of their 
slumbers, 
The lyre of the charmer be hushed in the 
grave, 
But far in the future the power of their 
numbers 
Shall kindle the hearts of our faithful and 
brave. 
It will waken an echo in souls deep and 
lonely, 
Like voices of reeds by the summer breeze 



It will call up a spirit for freedom, when only 
Her breathings are heard in the songs of 
our land. 



POEMS OP FRANCES BROWNE. 



For they keep a record of those, the true- 
hearted, 
Who fell with the cause they had vowed 
to maintain; 
They show lis bright shadows of glory de- 
parted, 
Of love that grew cold and the hope that 
was vain. 
The page may be lost and the pen long for- 
saken, 
And weeds may grow wild o'er the brave 
heart and hand ; 
But ye are still left when all else hath been 
taken, 
Like streams in the desert, sweet songs of 
our land. 

Songs of our land, ye have followed the 
stranger, 
With power over ocean and desert afar, 
Ye have gone with our wanderers through 
distance and danger, 
And gladdened their path like a home- 
guiding star. * 



With the breath of our mountains in sum- 
mers long vanished, 
And visions that passed like a wave from 
the sand, 
With hope for their country and joy from 
her banished. 
Ye come to us ever, sweet songs of our 
land. 

The spring time may come with the song of 
our glory, 
To bid the green heart of the forest re- 
joice, 
But the pine of the mountain though blasted 
and hoary, 
And the rock in the desert, can send forth 
a voice. 
It was thus in their triumph for deep deso- 
lations, 
While ocean waves roll or the mountains 
shall stand, 
Still hearts that are bravest and best of the 
nations, [land. 

Shall glory and live in the songs of the^ 



POEMS OF JOHN SAVAGE, LL.D. 



THE MUSTER OF THE NORTH. 



BALLAD OF 



"Oh, mother, have you heard the news?" 
" Oh, father, is it true ?" 
"Oh, brother, were I but a man" — 

'■' Oh, husband, they shall rue!" 
Thus, passionately, asked the boy, 

And thus the sister spoke, 
And thus the dear wife to her mate, 
The words they could not choke. 
'"The news! what news?" "Oh, bitter 
news — they've fired upon the flag — 
The flag no foreign foe could blast, the trai- 
tors down wouk#drag." 



" The truest flag of liberty 

The world has ever seen — 
The stars that shone o'er Washington 

And guided gallant Greene! 
The white and crimson stripes which bode 

Success in peace and war, 
Are draggled, shorn, disgraced, and torn — 
Insulted star by star; 
That flag which struggling men point to, 

rebuking kingly codes, 
The flag of Jones at Whitehaven, of Reid 
at Fayal Roads." 



■" Eh, neighbor, can'st believe this thing; 

The neighbor's eyes grew wild; 
Then o'er them crept a haze of shame, 

As o'er a sad, proud child; 
His face grew pale, he bit his lip, 

Until the hardy skin, 



By passion tightened, could not hold 
The boiling blood within; 
He quivered for a moment, the indignant 
stupor broke, [awoke. 

And the duties of the soldier in the citizen 



On every side the crimson tide 

Ebbs quickly to and fro; 
On maiden cheeks the horror speaks 

With fitful gloom and glow; 
In matrons' eyes their feelings rise, 

As when a danger, near, 
Awakes the soul to full control 
Of all that causes fear; 
The subtle sense, the faith intense, of wom- 
an's heart and brain, 
Give her a prophet's power to see, to suffer, 
and maintain. 



Through city streets the fever beats — 

O'er highways, byways, borne — 
The boys grow men with madness, 

And the old grow young in scorn; 
The forest houghs record the vows 

Of men, heart -sore, though strong; 
Th' electric wire, with words of fire, 
The passion speeds along, 
Of traitor hordes and traitor swords from 

Natchez to Manassas, 
And like a mighty harp flings out the war- 
chant to the masses. 



And into caverned mining pits 

The insult bellows down; 
And up through the hoary gorges, 

Till it shouts on the mountain's crown; 



POEMS OP JOHN SAVAGE. 



Then foaming o'er the table-lands, 

Like a widening rapid, heads; 
And rolling along the prairies, 
Like a quenchless lire it spreads; 
From workman's shop to mountain top 
there's mingled wrath and wonder, 
It appalls them like the lightning, and 
awakes them like the thunder. 



The woodman flings his axe aside; 

The farmer leaves his plough; 
The merchant slams his ledger lids 

For other business now; 
The artisan puts up his tools, 
The artist drops his brush, 
And joining hands for Liberty, 
To Freedom's standard rush; 
The doctor folds his suit of black, to fight 

as best he may, 
And e'en the flirting exquisite is " eager for 
the fray." 

VIII. 

The students leave their college rooms, 

Full deep in Greece and Eome, 
To make a rival glory 

For a better cause near home; 
The lawyer quits his suits and writs, 

The laborer his hire, 
And in the thrilling rivalry 
The rich and poor aspire! 
And party lines are lost amid the patriot 

commotion, 
As wanton streams grow strong and pure 
within the heart of ocean. \ 



The city marts are echoless; 

The city parks are thronged; 
In country stores there roars and pours 

The means to right the wronged; 
The town halls ring with mustering; 

From holy pulpits, too, 
Good priests and preachers volunteer 
To show what men should do — 
To show that they who preach the truth and 

God above revere, 
Can die to save for man the blessings God 
has sent down here. 



And gentle fingers everywhere 

The busy needles ply, 
To deck the manly sinews 

That go out to do or die; 
And maids and mothers, sisters dear, 

And dearer wives, outvie 
Each other in the duty sad, 

That makes all say " Good-by" — 
The while in every throbbing heart that's 

passed in farewell kiss 
Arises pangs of hate on those who brought 
them all to this. 



The mustering men are entering 

For near and distant tramps; 
The clustering crowds are centering 

In barrack-rooms and camps; 
There is riveting and pivoting, 

And furbishing of arms, 
And the willing marching, drilling, 
With their quick exciting charms, 
Half dispel the subtle sorrow that the women 

needs must feel, 
When e'en for Eight their dear ones fight 
the Wrong with steel to steel. 



With hammerings and clamorings, 

The armories are loud; 
Toilsome clangor, joy, and anger, 

Like a cloud enwrap each crowd; 
Belting, buckling, cursing, chuckling, 

Sorting out their "traps "in throngs; 
Some are packing, some knapsacking, 
Singing snatches of old songs; 
Fifers finger, lovers linger to adjust a badge 

or feather. 
And groups of drummers vainly strive to 
reveille together. 



And into many a haversack 

The prayer-book 's mutely borne — 
Its well-thumbed leaves in faithfulness 

By wives and mothers worn — 
And round full many a pillared neck, 

O'er many a stalwart breast, 



804 



POEMS OF JOHN SAVAGE. 



The sweetheart wife's — the maiden love's 
Dear effigy's caressed. 
God knows by what far camp-fire may these 

tokens courage give, 
To fearless die for truth and home, if not 
for them to live. 



And men who've passed their threescore 
Press on the ranks in flocks, Ty ears > 
Their eyes, like fire from Hecla's brow, 

Burn through their snowy locks; 
And maimed ones, with stout hearts, per- 
sist 
To mount the belt and gun, 
And crave, with tears, while forced away, 

To march to Washington. 
: "Why should we not ? We love that flag ! 
Great God ! " — they choking cry — 
: We're strong enough! We're not too old 
for our dear land to die! " 



And in the mighty mustering, 

No petty hate intrudes, 
No rival discords mar the strength 

Of rising multitudes; 
The jealousies of faith and clime 

Which fester in success, 
Give place to sturdy friendships 
Based on mutual distress; 
For every thinking citizen who draws the 

sword, knows well 
The battle's for Humanity — for Freedom's 
citadel ! 



0, Heaven! how the trodden hearts, 

In Europe's tyrant world, 
Leaped up with new-born energy 

When that flag was unfurled! 
How those who suffered, fought, and died, 

In fields, or dungeon-chained, 
Prayed that the flag of Washington 
Might float while earth remained! 
And weary eyes in foreign skies, still flash 

with fire anew, 
When some good blast by peak and mast 
unfolds that flag to view. 



And they who, guided by its stars, 
Sought here the hopes they gave, 
Are all aglow with pilgrim fire 
Their happy shrines to save. 
Here — Scots and Poles, Italians, Gauls, 

With native emblems trickt; 
There — Teuton corps, who fought before 
Fur Freiheit undfiir Licht; 
While round the flag the Irish like a human 

rampart go! 
They found Cead mille failtlie here — they'll 
give it to the foe. 

xvm. 
From the vine-land, from the Khine-land, 
From the Shannon, from the Scheldt, 
From the ancient homes of genius, 
From the sainted home of Celt, 
From Italy, from Hungary, 

All as brothers join and come, 
To the sinew-bracing bugle, 
And the foot-propelling drum; 
Too proud beneath the starry flag to die, 

and keep secure 
The Liberty they dreamed of by the Danube, 
Elbe, and Suir. 



From every hearth bounds up a heart, 

As spring from hill-side leaps 
To give itself to those proud streams 

That make resistless deeps! 
No book-rapt sage, for age on age, 

Can point to such a sight 
As this deep throb, which woke from rest 
A people armed for fight. 
Peal out, ye bells, the tocsin peal, for never 

since the day 
When Peter roused the Christian world has 



earth seen such array. 



Which way we turn, the eyeballs burn 

With joy upon the throng; 
Mid cheers and prayers, and martial airs, 

The soldiers press along; 
The masses swell and wildly yell, 

On pavement, tree, and roof, 



POEMS OF JOHN SAVAGE. 



And sun-bright showers of smiles and 
flowers 
Of woman's love give proof. 
Peal out, ye bells, from church and dome, 

in rivalrous communion 
"With the wild, upheaving masses, for the 
army of the Union! 



Onward trending, crowds attending, 

Still the army moves — and still: 

Arms are clashing, wagons crashing 

In the roads and streets they fill: 

O'er them banners wave in thousands, 

Pound them lraman surges roar, 
Like the restless-bosomed ocean, 
Heaving on an iron shore: 
Cannons thunder, people wonder whence the 

endless river comes, 
With its foam of bristling bay'nets, and its 
cataracts of drums. 



" God bless the Union army! " 

That holy thought appears 
To symbolize the trustful eyes 

That speak more loud than cheers. 
" God bless the Union army, 

And the flag by which it stands, 
May it preserve, with freeman's nerve, 
What freedom's God demands! " 
Peal out, ye bells — ye women, pray; for 

never yet went forth 
So grand a band, for law and land, as the 
muster of the North. 



SHANE'S HEAD. 



Goi/s wrath upon the Saxon! may they 

never know the pride, 
Of dying on the battle-field, their broken 

spears beside; 



When victory gilds the gory shroud of every 

fallen brave, 
Or death no tales of conquered clans can 

whisper to his grave. 
May every light from Cross of Christ that 

saves the heart of man, 
Be hid in clouds of blood before it reach the 

Saxon clan; 
Por sure, God! — and you know all whose 

thought for all sufficed, — 
To expiate these Saxon sins, they'd want 

another Christ. 



Is it thus, Shane the haughty! Shane the 

valiant! that we meet? 
Have my eyes been lit by Heaven but to 

guide me to defeat ? 
Have 1 no chief — or you no clan, to give us 

both defence, 
Or must I, too, be statued here with thy 

cold eloquence? 
Thy ghastly head grins scorn upon old Dub- 
lin's Castle-tower, 
Thy shaggy hair is wind-tost, and thy brow 

seems rough with power; 
Thy wrathful lips, like sentinels, by foulest 

treach'ry stung, 
Look rage upon the world of wrong, but 

chain thy fiery tongue. 



That tongue whose Ulster accent woke the 

ghost of Columbkill, 
Whose warrior words fenced round with 

spears the oaks of Derry Hill; 
Whose reckless tones gave life and death to 

vassals and to knaves, 
And hunted hordes of Saxon into holy Irish 

graves. 
The Scotch marauders whitened when his 

war-cry met their ears, 
And the death-bird, like a vengeance, poised 

above his stormy cheers, 
Ay, Shane, across the thundering sea, out- 
chanting it your tongue, 
Flung wild un-Saxon war-whoopings the 

Saxon Court among. 



POEMS OF JOHN SAVAGE. 



Just think, Shane! the same moon shines 

on Liffey as on Foyle, 
And lights the ruthless knaves on hoth, our 

kinsmen to despoil; 
And you the hope, voice, battle-axe, the 

shield of us and ours, 
A murdered, truukless, blinding sight above 

these Dublin towers. 
Thy face is paler than the moon, my heart 

is paler still — 
My heart ? I had no heart — 'twas yours, 

'twas yours! to keep or kill. 
And you kept it safe for Ireland, Chief, — 

your life, your soul, your pride, — 
,Bu^ they sought it in thy bosom, Shane — 

with proud O'Neill it died. 



You were turbulent and haughty, proud, 

and keen as Spanish steel, 
But who had right of these, if not our 

Ulster's Chief— O'Neill ? 
Who reared aloft the " Bloody Hand" until 

it paled the sun, 
And shed such glory on Tyrone, as chief 

had never done. 
He was " turbulent " with traitors — he was 

" haughty" with the foe — 
He was "cruel," say ye Saxons? Ay! he 

dealt ye blow for blow! 
He was " rough " and " wild," and who's not 

wild, to see his hearthstone razed ? 
He was " merciless as fire " — ah, ye kindled 

him, — he blazed! 
He was "proud:" yes, pi - oud of birthright, 

and because he flung away 
Your Saxon stars of princedom, as the rock 

does mocking spray, 
He was wild, insane for vengeance, — ay! and 

preached it till Tyrone 
Was ruddy, ready, wild too, with " Eed 

hands " to clutch their own. 



" The Scots are on the border, Shane — ye 
saints, he makes no breath — 

I remember when that cry would wake him 
up almost from death: 



Art truly dead and cold? Chief! art thou 

to Ulster lost? 
Host hear, dost hear? By Randolph led, 

the troops the Foyle have crossed! " 
He's truly dead! he must be dead! nor is his 

ghost about — 
And yet no tomb could hold his spirit tame 

to such a shout: 
The pale face droopeth northward — ah! his 

soul must loom up there, 
By old Armagh, or Antrim's glynns, Lough 

Foyle, or Bann the Fair! 
I'll speed me Ulster-wards, your ghost must 

wander there, proud Shane, 
In search of some O'Neill, through whom to 

throb its hate again! 



WASHINGTON. 



Art in its mighty privilege receives 

Painter and painted in its bonds forever; 
A girl by Eaphael in his glory lives — 
A Washington unto his limner gives 

The Ages' love to crown his best endeavor. 



The German Emperor, with whose counter- 
part 
The gorgeous Titian made the world ac- 
quainted, 
Boasted himself immortal by the art; 
But he who on thy features cast his heart, 
Was made immortal by the head he 
painted ! 



For thou before whose tinted shade I bow, 

Wert sent to show the wise of every nation 

How a young world might leave the axe and 

plough 
To die for Truth ! So great, so loved wert 
thou, 
That he who touched thee won a reputa- 
tion. 



POEMS OF JOHN SAVAGE. 



IV. 


IX. 


The steady fire that battled in thy breast, 


Could I have followed thee through town 


Lit up our gloom with radiance, good 


and camp! 


though gory; 


Fought where you led, and heard the 


Like some red sun which the dull earth ca- 


same drums rattle; 


ressed 


Charged with a wild but passion-steadied 


Into a wealthy adoration blest 


tramp, 


To be its glory's great reflected glory. 


And witnessed, rising o'er death's ghastly 




damp, 


v. 


The stars of empire through the clouds of 


Thou — when the earthly heaven of man's 
soul — 
The heaven of home, of liberty, of honor — 


battle! 


X. 


Shuddered with darkness — didst the clouds 


Oh! to have died thus 'neath thy hero gaze, 


uproll 


And won a smile, my bursting youth 


And burst such light upon the nation's dole 


would rather 


That every State still feels thy breath 


Than to have lived with every other praise, 


upon her. 


Saving the blessing of those epic days 


When you blest all, and were the nation's 


VI. 


father. 


Could I have seen thee in the Council — 




bland, 


XI. 


Firm as a rock, but as deep stream thy 


The autumn sun caresses Vernon's tomb, 


manner; 


Whose presence doth the country's honor 


Or when, at trembling Liberty's command, 


leaven 


Facing grim havoc like a flag-staff stand, 


Two suns they are, that dissipate man's 


And squadrons rolling round thee like a 


gloom; 


banner ! 


For one's the index to Earth's free-born 




bloom, 


VII. 


The other to our burning hope in Heaven! 


Could I have been with thee on Princeton's 


XII. 


morn! 
Or swelled with silence in the midnight 


Thy dust may moulder in the hollow rock; 


muster; 


But every day thy soul makes some new 


Behold thee ever, every fate adorn — 


capture! 


Or on retreat, or winged victory borne — 


Nations unborn will swell thy thankful flock, 


The warrior throbbing with the sage's 


And Fancy tremble that she cannot mock 


lustre: 


Thy history's Truth that will enchant with 




rapture. 


VIII. 




Could I have shouted in the wild acclaim 


XIII. 


That rent the sky o'er Germantown 


How vain the daring to compute in words 


asunder; 


The height of homage that the heart would 


Or when, like cataract, 'gainst the sheeted 


render! 


flame 


And yet how proud — to feel no speech af- 


You dashed, and chill'd the victor- shout to 


fords 


shame, 


Harmonious measure to the subtle chords 


On Monmouth's day of palsy-giving thun- 


That fill the soul beneath thy placid splen- 


der: 


dor! 



POEMS OF THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE.* 



DEATH OP THE HOMEWARD BOUND. 



Paler and thinner the morning moon grew, 
Colder and sterner the rising wind blew — 
The pole star had set in a forest of cloud, 
And the icicles crackled on spar and on 

shroud, [cry, 

When a voice from below we feebly heard 
" Let me see, let me see my own land ere I 

die. 

ii. 

"Ah ! dear sailor, say ! have we sighted Cape 

Clear ? 
Can you see any sign ? Is the morning light 

near? 
You are young, my brave boy ! thanks, 

thanks for your hand, [land. 

Help me up till I get a last glimpse of the 
Thank God. 'tis the sun that now reddens 

the sky, 
I shall see, I shall see my own land ere I die. 



" Let me lean on your strength, I am feeble 
and old, 

And one half of my heart is already stone- 
cold: 

Porty years work a change ! when I first 
cross'd this sea, 

There were few on the deck that could grap- 
ple with me; 

Bui my youth and my prime in Ohio went by, 

And I'm come back to see the old spot ere I 
die." 



'Twas a feeble old man, and he stood on the 

deck, 
His arm round a kindly young mariner's 

neck — 
His ghastly gaze fix'd on the tints of the east 
As a starveling might stare at the sound of a 

feast; 
The morn quickly rose and reveal'd to his eye 
The land he had pray'd to behold, and then 



Green, green was the shore, though the year 

was near done — 
High and haughty the capes the white surf 

dash'd upon — 
A gray ruin'd convent was down by the 

strand, 
And the sheep fed afar, on the hills of the 

land J 
" God be with you, dear Ireland ! " he gasp'd 

with a sigh; 
" I have lived to behold you — I'm ready to 

die." 



He sunk by the hour, and his pulse 'gan to 
fail, 

As we swept by the headland of storied Kin- 
sale; 

Off Ardigna Bay it came slower and slower, 

And his corpse was clay-cold as we sighted 
Tramore; 

At Passage we waked him, and now he doth 
lie 

In the lap of the land he beheld but to die. 




HOMEWAED BOUND. 

THE RETURN OF THE IRISH EXILE. 



POEMS OF THOMAS D'AROY McGEE. 



THE ANCIENT RACE. 



What shall become of the ancient race — 
The noble Celtic island race ? 
Like cloud on cloud o'er the azure sky, 
When winter storms are loud and high, 
Their dark ships shadow the ocean's face- 
What shall become of the Celtic race ? 



What shall befall the ancient race — 
The poor, unfriended, faithful race ? 
Where ploughman's song made the hamlet 

ring, 
The village vulture flaps his wing; 
The village homes, oh, who can trace, — 
God of our persecuted race ? 



What shall befall the ancient race ? 
Is treason's stigma on their face ? 
Be they cowards or traitors ? Go 
Ask the shade of England's foe; 
See the gems her crown that grace; 
They tell a tale of the ancient race. 



They tell a tale of the ancient race — 
Of matchless deeds in danger's face; 
They speak of Britain's glory fed 
On blood of Celt right bravely shed; 
Of India's spoil and Frank's disgrace — 
They tell a tale of the ancient race. 



Then why cast out the ancient race ? 
Grim want dwelt with the ancient race, 
And hell-born laws, with prison jaws, 
And greedy lords with tiger maws 
Have swallow'd — swallow still apace — 
The limbs and the blood of the ancient race. 



Will no one shield the ancient race ? 
They fly their fathers' burial-place; 



The proud lords with the heavy purse — 
Their fathers' shame — their people's curse — 
Demons in heart, nobles in face — 
They dig a grave for the ancient race ! 



They dig a grave for the ancient race — 

And grudge that grave to the ancient race — 

On highway side full oft were seen 

The wild dogs and the vultures keen 

Tug for the limbs and gnaw the face 

Of some starved child of the ancient race ! 



What shall befall the ancient race ? 
Shall all forsake their dear birth-place, 
Without one struggle strong to keep 
The old soil where their fathers sleep ? 
The dearest land on earth's wide space — 
Why leave it so, ancient race ? 



What shall befall the ancient race ? 
Light lip one hope for the ancient race 
Priest of God — Sog garth aroon ! 
Lead but the way — we'll go full soon; 
Is there a danger we will not face 
To keep old homes for the Irish race ? 



They will not go, the ancient race ! 
They must not go, the ancient race ! 
Come, gallant Celts, and take your stand — 
The League— the League — will save the 

land — 
The land of faith, the land of grace, 
The land of Erin's ancient race ! 



They will not go, the ancient race ! 
They shall not go, the ancient race ! 
The cry swells loud from shore to shore, 
From em'rald vale to mountain hoar — 
From altar high to market-place — 
They shall not go, the ancient race ! 



POEMS OF THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. 



THE EXILE'S REQUEST. 

i. 

Oh, Pilgrim, if you bring me from the far-off 

lands a sign, 
Let it be some token still of the green old 

land once. mine; 
A shell from the shores of Ireland would be 

dearer far to me 
Than all the wines of the Rhine land, or the 

art of Italie. 

II. 
For I was born in Ireland — I glory in the 

name — 
I weep for all her sorrows, I remember well 

her fame ! 
And still my heart must hope that I may yet 

repose at rest 
On the Holy Zion of my youth, in the Israel 

of the West. 

m. 

Her beauteous face is furrow'd with sorrow's 

streaming rains, 
Her lovely limbs are mangled with slavery's 

ancient chains, 
Yet, Pilgrim, pass not over with heedless 

heart or eye 
The island of the gifted, and of men who 

knew to die. 

IV. 

Like the crater of a fire-mount, all without 

is bleak and bare, 
But the rigor of its lips still show what fire 

and force were there; 
Even now in the heaving craters, far from 

the gazer's ken, 
The fiery steel is forging that will crush her 

foes again. 

v. 
Then, Pilgrim, if you bring me from the 

far-off lands a sign, 
Let it be some token still of the green old 

land once mine; 
A shell from the shores of Ireland would be 

dearer far to me 
Than all the wines of the Rhine land, or the 

art of Italie. 



THE SEA-DIVIDED GAELS. 

i. 

Hail to our Celtic brethren wherever they 

may be, 
In the far woods of Oregon, or o'er the At- 
lantic sea/ — 
Whether they guard the banner of St. George 

in Indian vales, 
Or spread beneath the nightless North ex- 
perimental sails — 

One in name and in fame 
Are the sea-divided Gaels. 



Though fallen the state of Erin, and changed 
the Scottish land — 

Though small the power of Mona, though 
unwaked Lewellyn's band — 

Though Ambrose Merlin's prophecies de- 
generate in tales, 

And the cloisters of Iona are bemoan'd by 
northern gales — 

One in name and in fame 
Are the sea-divided Gaels. 



In Northern Spain and Brittany our brethren 

also dwell; 
Oh ! brave are the traditions of their fathers 

that they tell; — 
The eagle and the crescent in the dawn of 

history pales 
Before their fire, that seldom flags, and never 

wholly fails: 

One in name and in fame 
Are the sea-divided Gaels. 



A greeting and a promise unto them all we 

send; 
Their character our charter is, their glory is 

our end; 
Their friend shall be our friend, our foe 



The past or future honors of the far-dispersed 
Gaels: 
One in name and in fame 
Are the sea-divided Gaels. 



POEMS OF THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. 



811 



THE GOBHAN SAER. 

He stepp'd a man out of the ways of men, 
And no one knew his sept, or rank, or 
name — 
Like a strong stream far issuing from a glen 
From some source unexplored, the master 
came; 
Gossips there were who, wondrous keen of 
ken, 
Surmised that he should be a child of 
shame ! 
Others declared him of the Druids — then 
Through Patrick's labors fallen from power 
and fame. 

He lived apart wrapp'd up in many plans — 

He woo'd not women, tasted not of wine — 
He shunn'd the sports and councils of the 
clans— 
Nor ever knelt at a frequented shrine. 
His orisons were old poetic ranns, 

Which the new Ollaves deem'd an evil sign; 
To most he seem'd one of those pagan Khans 
mystic vigor knows no cold decline. 



He was the builder of the wondrous towers, 
Which tall, and straight, and exquisitely 
round, 
Rise monumental round the isle once ours, 

Index-like, marking spots of holy ground. 
In gloaming glens, in leafy lowland bowers, 
On rivers' banks, these Cloiteachs old 
abound, 
Where Art, enraptured, meditates long 
hours, 
And Science flutters like a bird spell- 
bound ! 

Lo ! wheresoe'er these pillar-towers aspire, 

Heroes and holy men repose below — 
The bones of some glean'd from the pagan 
pyre, 

Others in armor lie, as for a foe: 
It was the mighty Master's life-desire 

To chronicle his great ancestors so; 
What holier duty, what achievement higher 

Remains to us than this he thus doth show ? 



Yet he, the builder, died an unknown death; 

His labor done, no man beheld him more; 
'Twas thought his body faded like a breath, 

Or, like a sea-mist, floated off Life's shore. 
Doubt overhangs his fate, and faith, and 
birth; 

His works alone attest his life and lore; 
They are the only witnesses he hath — 

All else Egyptian darkness covers o'er. 

Men call'd him Gobhan Saer, and many a tale 

Yet lingers in the by-ways of the land 
Of how he cleft the rock, and down the vale 

Led the bright river, child-like, in his 
hand; 
Of how on giant ships he spread great sail, 

And many marvels else by him first 
plann'd: 
But though these legends fade, in Innisfail 

His name and towers for centuries shall 



THE DEATH OF HUDSON.* 

The slayer Death is everywhere, and many 

a mask hath he, 
Many and awful are the shapes in which he 

sways the sea; 
Sometimes within a rocky aisle he lights his 

candle dim, 
And sits half -sheeted in the foam, chanting 

a funeral hymn; 
Full oft amid the roar of winds we hear his 

awful cry, 
Guiding the lightning to its prey through 

the beclouded sky; 
Sometimes he hides 'neath Tropic waves, 

and, as the ship sails o'er, 
He holds her fast to the fiery sun, till the 

crew can breathe no more. 



* The incident on which this ballad is founded is related in 
Bancroft's History of the Colonization of America, Vol. II 
The name of the faithful sailor, who preferred certain death 
to abandoning his captain in his last extremity, was Philip 
doubt. 



812 



POEMS OF THOMAS D'AECY McGEE. 



Tliere is no land so far away but he meeteth 

mankind there — 
He liveth at the icy pole with the 'berg and 

the shaggy bear, 
He smileth from the southron capes like a 

May queen in her flowers, 
He falleth o'er the Indian seas, dissolved in 

summer showers; 
But of all the sea-shapes he hath worn, may 

mariners never know 
Such fate as Heinrich Hudson found, in the 

labyrinths of snow — * 
The cold north seas' Columbus, whose bones 

lie far interr'd [ever heard. 

Under those frigid waters where no song was 

'Twas when he sail'd from Amsterdam, in 

the adventurous quest 
Of an ice-shored strait, through which to 

reach the far and fabled West; 
His dastard crew — their thin blood chill'd 

beneath the Arctic sky — 
Combined against him in the night; his hands 

and feet they tie, 
And bind him in a helmless boat, on that 

dread sea to sail — 
Ah, me ! an oarless, shadowy skiff, as a 

schoolboy's vessel frail. 
Seven sick men, and his only son, his com- 
rades were to be, 
Bat ere they left the Crescent's side, the 

chief spoke, dauntlessly: 

"Ho, mutineers ! I ask no act of kindness 

at your hands— 
My fate I feel must steer me to Death's still- 
silent lands; 
But there is one man in my ship who sail'd 

with me of yore, 
By many a bay and headland of the New 

World's eastern shore; 
From India's heats to Greenland's snows he 

dared to follow me, 
And is he turn'd traitor too, is hb in league 

with ye ? " 
Uprose a voice from the mutineers, " Not I, 

my chief, not I — 
I'll take my old place by your side, though 

all be sure to die." 



Before his chief could bid him back, he is 

standing at hi3 side; 
The cable's cut — away they drift, over the 

midnight tide. 
No word from any lip came forth, their 

strain'd eyes steadily glare 
At the vacant gloom, where late the ship had 

left them to despair. 
On the dark waters long was seen a line of 

foamy light — 
It pass'd, like the hem of an angel's robe, 

away from their eager sight. 
Then each man grasp'd his fellow's hand, 

some sigh'd, but none could speak, 
While on, through pallid gloom, their boat 

drifts moaningly and weak. 

Seven sick men, dying, in a skiff five hun- 
dred leagues from shore ! 
Oh ! never was such a crew afloat on this 

world's waves before; 
Seven stricken forms, seven sinking hearts 

of seven short-breathing men, 
Drifting over the sharks' abodes, along to the 

white bear's den. 
Oh ! 'twas not there they could be nursed in 

homeliness and ease ! 
One short day heard seven bodies sink, whose 

souls God rest in peace ! 
The one who first expired had most to note 

the foam he made, 
And no one pray'd to be the last, though 

each the blow delay'd. 

Three still remain. "My son! my son! hold 

. up your head, my son ! [is gone." 

Alas ! alas ! my faithful mate, I fear His life 

So spoke the trembling father — two cold 

hands in his breast, 
Breathing upon his dead boy's face, all too 

soft to break his rest. 
The roar of battle coiild not wake that sleeper 

from his sleep; 
The trusty sailor softly lets him down to the 

yawning deep; 
The fated father hid his face while this was 

being done, 
Still murmuring mournfully and low, " My 

son, my only son." 



POEMS OF THOMAS D'ARCY McGEE. 



813 



Another night; uncheerily, beneath that 
heartless sky, [passing by, 

The iceberg sheds its livid light upon them 

And each beholds the other's face, all spectre- 
like and wan, 

And even in that dread solitude man fear'd 
the eye of man ! 

Afar they hear the beating surge sound from 
the banks of frost, 

Many a hoar cape round about looms like a 
giant ghost, 

And, fast or slow, as they float on, they hear 
the bears on shore 

Trooping down to the icy strand, watching 
them evermore. 

The morning dawns; unto their eyes the 

light hath lost its cheer; 
Nor distant sail, nor drifting spar within 

their ken appear. 
Embay'd in ice the coffin-like boat sleeps on 

the waveless tide, 
Where rays of deathly-cold, cold light con- 
verge from every side. 
Slow crept the blood into their hearts, each 

manly pulse stood still, 
Huge haggard bears kept watch above on 

every dazzling hill. 
Anon the doom'd men were entranced, by 

the potent frigid air, 
And they dream, as drowning men have 

dreamt, of fields far off and fair. 

What phantoms fill'd each cheated brain, no 

mortal ever knew; 
What ancient storms they weather'd o'er, 

what seas explored anew; 
What vast designs for future days — what 

home hope, or what fear — 
There was no one 'mid the ice-lands to chron- 

cle or hear. 
So still they sat, the weird faced seals be- 
thought them they were dead, 
And each raised from the waters up his 

cautious wizard head, 
Then circled round the arrested boat, like 

vampires round a grave, 
Till frighted at their own resolve — they 

plunged beneath the wave. 



Evening closed round the moveless boat, still 

sat entranced the twain, 
When lo ! the ice unlocks its arms, the tide 

pours in amain ! 
Away upon the streaming brine the feeble 

skiff is borne, 
The shaggy monsters howl behind their fare- 
wells all forlorn. 
The crashing ice, the current's roar, broke 

Hudson's fairy spell, 
But never more shall this world wake his 

comrade tried so well ! 
His brave heart's blood is chill'd for aye, yet 

shall its truth be told, 
When the memories of kings are worn from 

marble and from gold. 

Onward, onward, the helpless chief — the 

dead man for his mate ! 
The shark far down in ocean's depth feels 

the passing of that freight, 
And bounding from his dread abyss, he snuffs 

the upper air, 
Then follows on the path it took, like lion 

from his lair. [company, 

God ! it was a fearful voyage and fearful 
Nor wonder that the stout sea-chief quiver 'd 

from brow to knee. 
Oh ! who would blame his manly heart, if 

e'en it quaked for fear, 
While whirl'd along on such a sea, with such 

attendant near ! 

The shark hath found a readier prey, and 

turn'd him from the chase; 
The boat hath made another bay — a drearier 

pausing place — 
O'er arching piles of blue-vein'd ice admitted 

to its still, 
White, fathomless waters, palsied like the 

doom'd man's fetter'd will. 
Powerless he sat — that chief escaped so oft 

by sea and land — 
Death breathing o'er him — all so weak he 

could not lift a hand. 
Even his bloodless lips refused a last short 

prayer to speak, 
But angels listen at the heart when the voice 

of man is weak. 



814 



POEMS OF THOMAS IVARCY McGEE. 



His heart and eye were suppliant turn'd to 

the ocean's Lord on high, 
The Borealis lustres were gathering in the 

sky; 
From South and North, from East and West, 

they cluster'd o'er the spot 
Where breathed his last the gallant chief 

whose grave man seeth not; 
They mark'd him die with steadfast gaze, as 

though in heaven there were 
A passion to behold how he the fearful fate 

would bear; 
They watch'd him through the livelong night 

— these couriers of the sky, 
Then fled to tell the listening stars how 'twas 

they saw him die. 



He sleepeth where old Winter's realm no 

genial air invades, 
His spirit burneth bright in heaven among 

the glorious shades, 
Whose God-like doom on earth it was crea- 
tion to unfold, 
Spanning this mighty orb of ours as through 

the spheres it roll'd. 
His name is written on the deep, the rivers 

as they run 
Will bear it timeward o'er the world, telling 

what he hath done; 
The story of his voyage to Death, amid the 

Arctic frosts, 
Will be told by mourning mariners on earth's 

most distant coasts. 






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